


Odd Socks, Faded Photographs

by humble_beginnings



Category: Ivar the Boneless - Fandom, Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ivar the Boneless - Freeform, Modern AU, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-01-25 19:59:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12540000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humble_beginnings/pseuds/humble_beginnings
Summary: Reader meets Ivar at the gym and the attraction is instant. Years and many beautiful pictures later, their hearts are broken and Ivar is sleeping alone. So how did they get here?Ivar is a modern take on Vikings!Ivar, with Alex's photography obsession tossed in for good measure. I asked myself what Ivar might have been like in a modern setting with treatment for his disability (I'm taking a stab with spina bifida because it's something I can write with a little bit of experience, not because it's documented that he had it), and this character is what happened. I'd love to hear your thoughts!I expect this to be about ten parts (we'll see!)





	1. Part One

You first met Ivar at your gym, early on a Sunday morning. Ordinarily Sundays were for sleeping in and long brunches but you were working toward a promotion and hadn't been able to work out all week, so with your hair scraped into some sort of nest and your eyes still half asleep you stumbled in the doors to find it occupied only by your usual trainer, Travis, and one other client.   
Perfect. No waiting for weights or machines, you could get it done and get a hot shower.   
As you stuffed your bag into a locker and ear buds into your ears you felt eyes on you, looking up to find the other gym-goer watching you as he sat on a bench raising and lower a bar above his head. You immediately looked away – not before noticing the muscles that bulged in his chest and shoulders – because although you weren't above appreciating a hard-working man's form, you generally waited until they weren't looking right at you. When you looked back up from your bag his blue eyes were still focused right onto yours, almost uncomfortably so.  
He smiled, a cocky curling of his lips and tilt of his head that made you expect him to lick his lips like you were his prey. You returned it with a coy smirk, your heart fluttering a little that anyone would look at you like that in your current state. Hell, you probably had mascara still smeared beneath your eyes. You laughed to yourself at the idea that he was actually smiling at you out of pity because you looked such a mess.

You tried to ignore him while you worked out but almost every time you looked up you caught his eyes darting away from you, to the point you checked in the bathroom mirror that there wasn't something on your face. Finally when you were on the spin bike you had the upper hand – he was in front of you and facing away. He was pulling down again, this time on a machine to work his back muscles which were beautifully visible through the flimsy back of his white tank top. They were sculpted so expertly he must surely be here every day, he was lean and defined rather than the bulk of some of the men who frequented your gym. His movements were slow and controlled, like you were watching in slow motion, and you became so distracted your legs started to do the same. Just as you realised your pedaling was like a small child going up hill he released the bar and stood up, leaning on the machine to straighten himself and looking straight at you once again with those luminous blue eyes. He turned to listen to his trainer and slide his arm into a crutch before moving over to the mats, and you looked away.

All this time he was probably looking up at you because you were staring. He's likely quite used to being stared at, and hates it. A hot blush rose in your cheeks, and you pedaled until your lungs burned and your heart raced so hard your chest hurt.

“Catch you later, buddy,” he said to the trainer on his way out . You refused to raise your head but caught a peek of him walking out, noticing he looked more unsteady on his feet than anything else. You wondered if it was an injury or something more permanent.

By the time you'd finished with taking out your frustration on a punching bag your clothes were soaked and sweat trickled down your spine as you pulled the bag from your locker. A small, yellow, folded note fell at your feet.   
_[My name is Ivar and my number is xxxx-xxxx. Call and give me yours?]_  
“Smooth,” you whispered, shaking your head.   
While the hot water and soap washed the sticky sweat from your skin, you considered calling him. The hesitation was nothing to do with your first impression, but because you'd only recently broken off a long and exhausting relationship and you weren't keen on getting in to another one for a while. No question, Ivar was attractive and his cheeky smile and bright eyes had made you melt within a few minutes, but it would be best to wait until work had settled down and you were sure you were ready to date again.

Still, you couldn't bring yourself to throw the note away. It remained in your purse for the next few days, reminding you of Ivar every time you paid for something. On Wednesday you woke early and after desperately trying to catch up on some extra sleep you gave in and swung your feet onto the cool hardwood floor, pulling on your gym clothes as you twisted your hair back. You had so enjoyed the quiet atmosphere in the gym early on Sunday, you hoped it would be the same on a weekday.

It wasn't, but it was slightly less busy than later and you'd missed your workout the last few days. As you warmed up on the treadmill you felt that familiar prickle again, turning subtly to one side and scanning the rows of exercise machines and sweaty people for a few moments before your eyes locked on to a pair of mischievous, smiling, blue ones. He winked back when you smiled at him, and you cursed your feet for misstepping immediately after, making you grab the handle so you didn't stumble all the way off.

Your reaction to his wink seemed to encourage him, and this time when he left he walked deliberately past you, letting you see another folded yellow note between his fingers. Hard as you tried you couldn't help but watch him walk away, and this time you opened the locker more carefully.  
 _[In case you lost my number, it's xxxx-xxxx. A text would also be fine if you're shy, I don't really like talking on the phone anyway. Hang on to it this time, I won't harass you with a 3_ _rd_ _attempt. Nice socks, by the way.]_  
You laughed – looking down at your mismatched-as-usual green and pink socks – as you slipped it into your bag and headed for the showers, trying to formulate a text in your head with the right amount of humour and friendliness.

A few hours' obsessing and you finally had it right, at least you hoped.   
_[Hi Ivar, I was a little hesitant to give a stranger my name and number without knowing your intentions. Are you going to sell my information to spammers? Am I suddenly going to be inundated with unsolicited pictures at all hours of the day and night? How do I know you're not some hacker who will access my camera and watch me sleep? Can I trust you?]  
_ The wait for a reply, even with a ton of work to keep you occupied, was painful and seemed to stretch on forever. In fact it was only a few minutes.  
 _[Do I look like the kind of man who would do any of those things? I will assume you are joking with me since you did not have crazy eyes on any of the occasions I caught you staring at me. I would submit Travis from our gym, who has known me for many years, as a referee. You are welcome to ask him if I am likely to do any of those things. I look forward to hearing from you again, and I will be forced to give you a nickname if you don't give me your name.]_  
[You already have my number, Ivar. I will give you my name after I have spoken to Travis. If I do not instead decide I must smash my telephone and leave the country.]  
[Socks, then. That's what you will be called from now on. Tell Travis I said hi and I will see him in the morning.]

Although you can't push away thoughts of Ivar entirely, you don't have the chance to talk to Travis and instead decide on going to the gym early again the next day, where of course Ivar and him are already working out.   
“What's with the early morning sessions?” Travis asks when you pass them.  
“It fits in better with work,” you say with a shrug and a smile toward Ivar. “Good morning, Ivar.”  
“Morning, Socks,” he tosses back with a wink.  
This morning you're determined not to even glance in his direction and concentrate on your own workout, with music blasting in your ears. You about jump out of your skin when Travis appears beside you, leaning on the handles of the treadmill.  
“Christ, you scared the shit out of me.” You tug the earbuds from your ears and take a sip of water.  
“Ivar's a good guy.”  
You laugh. “He did not at all put you up to this, right?”  
“Oh, he totally put me up to it. He asked me to come over and put a good word in for him.”  
“You know him? He's not going to turn up at my house and murder me in my sleep?”  
“I doubt it,” Travis says with a laugh. “Our families are close so I've known him since he was born. Like I said, he's a really good guy. Don't confuse his charisma for cockiness, it's just his way of making people see beyond the crutches.”  
You want to ask what they're for but it seems too intrusive, so instead you nod and keep walking. “I'll think about it.”

Before you shower you send him just one word.  
 _[Y/n]  
[I'm still calling you Socks. Have dinner with me on Saturday, I'll pick you up at 8.]  
_Your heart beat a little faster, at this point you'd made up your mind. It was made up before you gave him your number and name.   
_[I'd love to.]_ You sent your address and slipped the phone into the outer pocket of your gym bag.

Hard as you tried not to be nervous, you were pacing your kitchen as Ivar stood at your building and straightened his sweater sleeves before slipping them back into his crutches. You both wanted to make a good impression, you had both enlisted the help of friends to choose the perfect outfit and hairstyle, and you were both as anxious as each other.

When you opened the door you were struck by his hair slicked back into a ponytail and a wave of intoxicating cologne washed over you, fresh like a summer downpour. He wore dark jeans and boots with a light, grey sweater that looked so soft you had to hold back from touching it. Ivar had told you the evening would be casual so you had also chosen dark jeans but with heeled ankle boots and a flowing burgundy blouse covered in tiny pink flowers.   
“Wow,” he says. “You look lovely, Socks. Not that you don't always, but you look a little different outside of the gym.”  
“Washed my hair and everything,” you retort with a laugh. “You scrub up nicely, too.”  
“Oh, this old thing?” He gestures to his sweater and grins. “Are you ready to go?”  
You nod and pick up your purse from the table by the door, heading out into the mild evening by his side. The whole time you try your best to ignore the crutches and behave as if nothing is different, but you're about half way into the ten minute stroll when he slows a little and turns toward you.

“I'm not shy, you can ask if you like.”  
“Ask what?”  
“About the crutches. I've lived with this all my life, you couldn't offend me or put your foot in it if you tried.”  
Not a temporary injury, then. “I... well, what are they for? Since you don't mind me asking.”  
“I have a congenital deformity in my spine called spina bifida, the messages don't get through to my legs and feet like they should. Now I know your building I'll only need one next time, but I've learned that until I'm sure it's always best to bring both, lest I get stuck at a staircase without a railing or fall on my face on uneven ground.”  
“Oh. That must be... difficult?” He was being so open and honest, and you assumed he was fine talking about it since he asked for questions, but you were sure if you didn't choose your words carefully your foot would end up firmly in your mouth.  
“I'm kind of used to it, now.”  
“Where are you...” You think better of asking about his accent and decide to rephrase. “Were you born around here?”  
“No, but I'm flattered you think my English is so good. I was born near Copenhagen, I came over here for university.”  
“What do you do now?”   
“I'm a tactical consultant to Scotland Yard. Counter-terrorism, riot squad, that sort of stuff.”  
“Ooh that sounds exciting.”  
“It's interesting, for sure. As a kid I just wanted to be in the military with my brothers, so this is a good alternative. And less dirty.”  
You laughed along with him and looked up to meet his gaze, quickly realising there was far more depth to Ivar than you could have imagined.

Over dinner in a secluded corner booth he insisted upon turning the conversation to you, asking about everything from your job to your family and childhood, listening intently as you told him all there was to know. You shared a rich chocolate dessert and finished a second bottle of wine, the conversation never waning. Already you were drawn in by his expressive blue eyes, the kind you'd happily drown in, and his boyish smile that never seemed far from the surface. When he returned from the bathroom the last time he was laughing behind his hand.  
“Did you know the restaurant is empty except for us? I think they're about to switch off the lights!”  
You checked your watch, leaping up when you realised it was almost midnight. “Where did all that time go?”  
“You know what they say about having fun,” he said with a wink.   
Ivar refused to let you pay, instead insisting you could pay for the next date, and your stomach flipped a little with the knowledge that he had enjoyed himself as much as you. Until you were outside you'd forgotten all about the crutches, and if the walk home was slower than usual it was only your shared reluctance to say goodnight.

On arrival at your building Ivar leaned himself on the brick wall at the bottom of the stairs and removed the crutches, holding steady to the edge of the bricks instead.   
“I've had a lovely time, Ivar. Thank you.”  
“Thank _you,_ ” he said, that intense gaze pulling you in. “For giving me a chance.”  
“Totally worth it.” As you moved closer he widened his legs so you could stand between them.   
He was still an easy half head taller but his face was angled down so you saw his gaze flicker between your mouth and eyes, see his lips part just enough for his warm breath to fall gently on your face. Your head swam with his cologne and the wine, and he hesitated for a fraction of a second.  
“Um... I haven't done this in a while,” he says with a nervous chuckle. “May I kiss you goodnight, Socks?”  
“Yes, please.” You rested a light hand behind his neck, the ends of his ponytail falling softly on your fingers as he leaned toward you.

Ivar's smooth lips ghosted over yours, unassuming despite your affirmation right before, and you returned the kiss a little harder so that a slick of moisture was left behind. You pulled back barely a hair's breadth before kissing him again, this time more eagerly until his tongue parted your lips and coaxed yours into a slow dance that seemed to go on for hours, until your breath was audible and your pulse raced in your ears. His arms threaded easily around your waist and held you flush against his hard body, your fingertips brushing the back of his neck until a shiver rose up his spine. Even when you broke apart for breath your noses and foreheads still touched and when you finally opened your eyes you saw your broad smile reflected on Ivar's lips.   
“You're welcome to come upstairs,” you whispered, hoping he wouldn't think you too forward.   
Ivar slid one hand up to cup the back of your neck. “I want to, but not tonight,” he said with a sigh. “I'll see you again, though?”  
“I hope so,” you said before kissing him once more. This time when the kiss ended you pulled back entirely, resting your hands on the cloud-like softness of his chest, just enough to feel the hard muscle beneath.  
“May I take a picture before I go, if that's not too strange?”  
“Of us?”  
He nodded and pulled his phone from his pocket, his hand on your lower back pressing you tight against him while he gently rested his head on top of yours and held out his phone. “Say 'Socks'.”  
You laughed right as he pressed the shutter.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Years later, Ivar pulls the same picture from his refrigerator and swipes his thumb over the faded ink. A second, better quality copy resides in a frame that's been packed away now, hidden from view to avoid comments like 'you were such a beautiful couple'.   
You were, he thinks. Photogenic, people would say. You were the reason he purchased the best camera he could afford, the reason he insisted on taking it everywhere, the reason his refrigerator is filled with beautiful memories. For a time when things were especially tough, you were his reason for living, the reason he swung his feet onto the floor every morning no matter how much pain the action brought on.

He pulls a storage box from the closet and takes the time to look over each picture before placing them carefully inside, until all that remains are brightly coloured magnets, a small calendar, and a note pad. Then he takes the box to the spare room and shuts it away with the others, to be dealt with on another day when he feels strong enough to do so.

As his crutch thuds softly on the floor and he switches off the lights, Ivar wonders what you're doing at that moment across town. Sliding between the sheets alone, ever fibre of him remembers as though it were yesterday, your scent has permeated his bedding just as his soul, and no amount of washing will break its hold. He lifts his phone to call you, but it would do no good. A broken heart can't be mended with a phone call any more than the emptiness in his bed can be filled with an extra pillow. The wounds are too fresh, the anger too raw, all tender words left wilting in the thick air of hostility.

“How did we get here?” he asks the night.

 


	2. Part Two

Your second date with Ivar was to an outdoor cinema where you enjoyed wine on a blanket beneath stars and fairy lights, a warm breeze teasing at an early summer. Ivar's legs stretched out behind you and for the majority of the film he toyed with your fingers or stroked up and down your back, stealing a kiss every so often that ranged anywhere from perfectly chaste to unsuitable for public viewing. The walk home was long but he didn't seem to mind, you both took the time to get to know more about each other and by the time it was over you were even more sure this wouldn't be a short lived fling. There were many pictures taken that night, lying on the blanket or looking down at the camera with fairy lights twinkling behind you.

You were falling for him. Hard. And judging by the long, heated kiss that signaled the end of your evening together, he felt the same. With his hand still threaded into your hair you fumbled in your purse for your keys, assuming he would follow you inside, but when you turned to put it in the lock he gently took your hand.   
“Not tonight, Socks,” he whispered. His hot breath on your ear made goosebumps on your shoulder, and you turned in his arms.  
“Oh, are you sure?”  
He laughed and tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. “No, but yes. Maybe we could have lunch tomorrow, though?”  
“Absolutely.”  
Ivar pulled you against him and you were lost in his passionate kiss until your feet ached from standing. Then you were back in your apartment alone with a dull heaviness between your thighs and your skin still pleading for his touch.

 _Is it me?_ You wondered. _Am I not sexy enough?_  
Ivar certainly seemed aroused – his eyes were wide and dark and you felt the quickening of his breath, saw the rosy flush in his cheeks – and yet he kept putting it off. You told yourself you were probably being way too forward, inviting him up on the first and second date and being offended that he turned you down. But then, the next day was the third date. Surely it would be perfectly proper for him to take you to bed after, and relieve the tension you were tempted to rub away yourself.

The next day you were up early again, entering the gym not long after Ivar began working out. You felt slightly awkward for a few seconds – unsure of the protocol when bumping into the man you were dating, at the gym – but Ivar winked as you passed and you returned his bright smile while trying not to blush too much in front of Travis. Before he left he found you on the rowing machine, his hair wet and dripping onto his shoulders from the shower and the light scent of soap wafting from him.  
“How do you feel about picnics?”  
“Love them.”  
“Excellent, I'll see you at twelve.”  
“Can I bring anything?”  
“Just your beautiful smile,” he said, leaving you with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

When Ivar met you at the door the anticipation you'd been feeling while getting yourself ready only intensified, his tight white t-shirt clinging to the definition of his chest and shoulders, jeans slung low on his waist. His kiss hello was as intense as last night’s farewell, almost regretful that you had a date to keep, and you felt confident that after this third date there would be more than a kiss before you parted.

As you walked side by side toward the river your dress brushed feather-light around your knees, your senses heightened as they always were when Ivar was around. He led you to a more private spot along the water, away from the families and other couples out enjoying the prelude to summer, beneath a large tree whose leaves periodically dislodged and floated down into the dawdling water below. When you were closer you saw there was a huge blanket laid out with gigantic square pillows, a basket, and a cooler resting against the thick trunk of the old tree, and momentary disappointment at the perfect spot being occupied made you look around for the intruding party.  
“This is us,” Ivar said. “I might have had a little help from Travis.”

The food seemed never ending, an abundance of fresh fruit and salads, bread and dips, and real lemonade. If you were worried that the conversation might falter now that you knew so much about each other you needn't have been, any spare moment was filled with a kiss. Afterward you reclined beside Ivar on one of the cushions and watched the ducks swim calmly back and forth across the water, enjoying the warm weather and each others company.

Every so often his hand would wander onto the exposed skin of your leg or chest, and the darkening of his eyes when things heated up never escaped your notice, but he always withdrew again just as you were about to lose control.  
“I'm sorry if I've been too forward, inviting you into my apartment on the first two dates,” you said.   
“No, please don't be. I wanted it as much as you did. Keeping my hands off you has become very, very difficult,” he said with a dark chuckle.   
“So don't,” you said softly, reaching behind his head to pull his lips to yours. Before the kiss was over you were whimpering into his mouth as he let his entire body press against you, feeling the erection swelling through his jeans. As Ivar's arm slid around your waist his hand paused to gently cup your breast, enough to send little jolts through your body to your core that continued long after your lips had parted.

“Socks, I have wanted to lie with you since I first saw you, but I worry that my body will let me down.”  
You wanted to slap your own forehead, how did it not occur to you that sex might be more difficult than usual? “There's no rush, we can take our time.”  
“It isn’t that I don’t want you, please believe me. You’re so beautiful, I find your eyes and your smile are on my mind all day, and I want to get to know you as quickly as possible yet enjoy every moment.” He tenderly cups your cheek and draws you in for a gentle kiss. “I just don’t want to disappoint you.”  
Heat rises in your cheeks and you chastise yourself for being so eager to get him in to bed. “You won’t, you couldn’t. This isn’t all about sex, I enjoy your company.”

 _Is it enough, though?_ You wondered late that night. Sleep was eluding you, you’d spent all afternoon by the river with Ivar, talking and touching, those blue eyes burning into you and so intense that more than once you had to look away. When the date was over he walked you home and this time accepted your invitation to come in, where you watched a movie on the couch with your legs draped over his lap, tossing popcorn into each others mouths. It felt natural to be always in contact with him and now that you’d assured him there was no pressure he had relaxed into gestures like tickling you or kissing your neck, knowing you wouldn’t expect more until he was ready.

You should have been satisfied with that, after such a romantic day and a light-hearted evening getting to know each other further, but you were also left with a burning ache in your core. After watching his hand brush up and down your bare thigh, his fingers circling your knee and lightly tickling behind it, his lips on your neck and his tongue in your mouth, you were still aroused and seeking friction hours later.

Ivar liked to snap sneaky pictures of you with his phone when you weren’t expecting it. You’d be kissing and hear the shutter sound, or you’d laugh and clutch your side and later he’d show you the photo he took while you weren’t paying attention. That night when you expected he’d be asleep and you were trying desperately not to rub your thighs together, he sent you one of the pictures from your picnic. Your foreheads were still pressed together, your lips parted with only a centimetre separating them, and your eyes were still closed while his looked down. You couldn’t be sure if they were looking down at your cleavage or down at your lips, but the slightest hint of that deep azure was enough for you to see the desire in them. God but you wished he was there with you, just a touch in the right place would be enough to tip you over the edge you were wound so tight.

Without realising your fingers had wandered, your hips bucked up against your hand as your slick folds were parted. A wanton, shuddering sigh fell from your lips and you let the phone fall from your hand onto the pillow as your fingertips slipped inside, spreading the juices over your bud just so. With the other hand you brought your nipples to attention and kneaded at your breast, until the rubbing of your fingers left you panting and moaning, the climax washing over you like a wave crashing on the sand, leaving you limp and sleepy.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After another long and crazy week at work, you were becoming suspicious of your manager’s behaviour. When you first told Carly about Ivar she was in full support of you finally dating someone decent, but now every time she saw the phone in your hand there was some comment about chatting to your ‘boyfriend’ too much or how you needed to get your priorities in order.   
You might understand her reasoning if you were actually talking to Ivar, but you’d been making work calls every time and barely had a text from Ivar all week.  
On Friday afternoon you were getting ready to leave when she swung into your office. “I need your help, we’re taking some clients out for dinner and Lexie apparently went home with food poisoning. What you’re wearing is perfect, let’s go.”  
“I can’t tonight, I have plans.” You’d been looking forward to another date with Ivar all week.  
She sighed dramatically. “I thought you really wanted this promotion.”  
“I do! It’s just that I’ve worked late every day this week, I’ve worked from home every night, as it is I don’t have time to go home and change...”  
She groaned. “It’s fine, go on your _date_. I mean it won’t look good, knocking back work for something you could easily reschedule, but I’ll try to explain it to the partners. Have a good time.”  
You slumped into your chair as she left, knowing perfectly well she was guilting you into going and that you’d eventually give in. Dinner with Ivar sounded so perfect, though. “At least let me call him first?” you shouted after her.  
“Do it when we get there, let’s go!”

Carly had legs for days, which made her walk like a giraffe – it never looked like she was going particularly fast but you always seemed to be running to keep up. Trying to text and trot after her you tripped at the edge of the road, twisting your ankle on the kerb and sending your phone skidding into the traffic. For a few heart-stopping moments you thought it might just be scratched, if you could get a hand on it everything would be fine... until it was spat out from beneath a car wheel with a gut wrenching crunch.   
“Are you okay?” Carly asked, dragging you by the arm back onto the footpath.  
“Yeah, but my phone...” you trailed off. Your entire life was on that phone – backed up of course, but you’d still have to replace it – and now you didn’t know how to call Ivar and let him know you’d be late at the very least. When it was clear to cross you could feel your ankle starting to swell, throbbing painfully as you put weight on the outside of your foot and scooped up the larger pieces of the device.

This was not the night you’d had in mind.

“I have to find a way to call him,” you whined as you approached the bar.   
“Oh my god! Would you shut up about it already?” Carly shouted, rounding to face you. “You had a date, I know. He’s a big boy and he’ll understand. If he doesn’t he’s not worth your time.”  
“He will if I call and tell him I’ll be late,” you grumbled under your breath.  
“Honey, you’re not leaving this bar until our guests do. Is that understood?”  
“Yes.” You groaned and plastered a smile on your face before entering, which remained fake and painful for the next three hours. It wasn’t that the clients were terrible people, they were just downright boring. And one was a particularly sleazy male variety, not entirely bad looking for his early fifties, but he made up for his rugged handsomeness with repeated sexist comments.   
“Where do the other pretty birds hang out?” he asked while leaning on the counter and waiting for a drink. “You’re the only one I see.”  
You looked up and tried not to frown too hard, totally bewildered by the smile on his face. _Was that a compliment or a back hand?_ “I’m not sure.”  
“Maybe we could get out of here and you could show me a good time?”  
“I beg your pardon?” You stepped sideways to widen the space between you but once again he closed it and pressed against you.   
“You know, show me what you guys do for fun.”  
“I actually have plans, sorry. Maybe next time?” Your cheeks had begun to ache from forcing the polite smile, your words more ground out than spoken.   
“Aw, come on now.” He unfolded a wad of bills from his wallet. “Drinks, and anything else your pretty little heart desires, are on me. What do you say? It’s only polite to please the client.” His arm snaked around and his fingers gripped your waist, pulling you roughly against him and making your weight shift right onto your bad ankle until you yelped.   
“Pretty sure the lady said no,” a familiar accented voice said from behind you.   
You turned just in time to see Ivar's face contorted in rage, and then the client stumbled back and fell to the floor.

You were so stunned that when Ivar took your hand and led you out onto the street you followed without thinking, but on the next corner you stopped dead.  
“Ivar... wait.”  
“You want to go back to that asshole?” he hissed.  
“No, but – ”  
“Then I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you’. Was it that we didn’t have sex yet, or something else?”  
“What?” You shook your head, trying to clear it.   
“You fucking stood me up!”  
“I didn’t, I can explain. My phone – ”  
He grabbed your hand and started walking again. “We can do this in private.”  
“No.” You stopped and he almost overbalanced before letting go of your hand. An unfortunate experience you’d sooner forget had taught you all about the dangers of saving arguments until you were out of public view. “I’ve done the ‘in private’ arguments. You want to yell at me, do it right here in the street.”   
Ivar didn’t respond further than standing still, turning to face the wall of the building rather than you.   
You needed him to not be like your ex, needed him to be different, to be better. “That was a work function, I was roped in at the last minute, and my phone got run over on the way there.”  
“Well you should have called before you were on your way there. Or, you could just tell the truth. I can take it.”  
“That _is_ the truth. I’ve told you about work, Carly guilt-tripped me. I’m truly sorry I didn’t call but your number was on my phone.” You pulled the pieces from your purse and held them out in your palm. “How did you know I was there?”  
“I was walking past from the restaurant and saw you,” he said quietly, leaning his back against the bricks. “I just assumed you’d had a better offer.”  
“Well don’t, because if I like you enough to argue in the middle of the fucking street after three dates, I’m not going to stand you up for a fourth!” You turned to head back the way you came, trying to hide the pain from your ankle in heels that weren't designed for this much walking. Or any walking, for that matter.  
“Where are you going? I was going to walk you home!”  
“The man you hit was our client, Ivar. I have to go clean up your mess.”  
“I’ll come with you.”  
“No. Best if we pretend you were some random stranger and let it blow over. Go home and calm down, I’ll call you later.”  
“You don’t have my number or a phone,” he said in a low monotone.  
“Guess I’ll see you at the gym, then. Or something.”

“Fuck!” Ivar shouted as he watched you leave, slamming his fist back against the bricks and squeezing his eyes shut tight. He’d tried to just cool it, but after being stood up and then the fire in his blood when he saw you through the window, that sleazebag leering over you like a piece of meat... He shuddered and raised his eyes to watch until you were out of sight before he turned to go home.

You considered removing your shoes on the way back but the risk of stepping on – or in – something unsavoury made the decision for you. Instead you moved carefully and tried to keep your weight on the inside of your foot as you made your way back to the crowded chaos you'd fled minutes before. The client Ivar attempted to knock out was sitting back at your table with Carly and the others, an ice pack on his nose.   
“What the fuck?” she snapped when you sat down. “Where have you been?”  
“I needed some air.”  
“I'll bet,” the client said. “Let your boyfriend know I'm pressing charges.”  
“I've never met that man in my life, and you'll do no such thing. His actions were justified.”  
Carly was making cut throat signs across the table and coughing far louder than necessary, but there was no backing down now.  
“You listen here, girl – ”  
“No,” You cut him off. “I've listened to enough of your condescending bullshit. You can't talk to anyone like that and get away with it, flashing your cash around and thinking it will buy you a good time with me? I'm an architect, not a fucking hooker.”  
His mouth gaped open and for a moment you think you've gotten through, but then, “I don't know what you're accusing me of but I've done nothing of the sort. All I did was offer to buy you a drink and ask where you go for fun.”  
Carly looked like she might faint but she'd given up her attempts to silence you. If you lost your job so be it, you'd not shut up about something like this for the sake of financial security.

You expected you'd regret this in the morning.

“If you insist on lying about your actions then I won't be continuing my work on your project. I'm sure you'll be speaking with the partners first thing on Monday, and I intend to do the same. Good night.”  
Without looking back you gritted your teeth and strutted out the front doors and into a cab, giving the driver your address along with a look that said 'yes I know it's less than ten minutes to walk, fight me.'

You thought the drama had concluded for the evening, but when you arrived at your building you found Ivar sitting on the low brick fence waiting for you.  
“Did you honestly just get a cab from that bar? Aren't you the able bodied one here?” His cheeky grin had well and truly returned, and it was almost enough to make your lips curl, the little shit.  
“I rolled my ankle in these stupid heels because of Carly and her fucking ridiculous giraffe legs and I don't want to fight with you any more.”  
“I'm sorry,” he said quietly as you passed. “I shouldn't have... I just literally saw red, and... I am truly sorry. Are you in a lot of trouble?”  
You stopped and turned back to join him. “If I am it's probably my own doing, I told him I'd refuse to work on their project any more. The words 'condescending bullshit', 'fucking hooker,' were tossed in for good measure.”  
“'Atta girl,” he says with a low chuckle. “I should have known you wouldn't stand me up, either.”  
“Like I said, if I'm prepared to argue with you in the street...” You trailed off and leaned in to kiss him. “I'm sorry I stood you up and didn't call. Guess I'm getting a new phone tomorrow.”  
Ivar reached out and gently pulled you against him, wrapping his arms around your back while you rested your head on his chest.“Is your ankle okay?”  
“I'm sure it will be fine.”  
“Be sure to put some ice on it as soon as you're inside.”  
“The only thing in my freezer is ice cream.”  
“That won't work.” He laughs.  
“How dare you! Ice cream fixes everything!”  
He shook his head and pulled out his phone, and like magic a cab pulled up a few seconds later. You eyed him for an explanation but he just winked and opened the door. “Get in, Socks.”  
“Where are we going?”  
“To get you some ice.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

One day you'd laugh about that night, Ivar would joke for years that it was his punching the guy in the face that sealed the deal on your promotion. When you were called to meet with the partners on Monday morning you'd already started packing your belongings, assuming you'd be fired on the spot, but instead they offered you the new position and moved you to a larger office immediately. The largest photograph on your desk is black and white in a simple white frame, Ivar and you are toasting the new position in front of the window, the city lights blown out into tiny circles in the background while the bubbles rise in your flutes of champagne. Your eyes are fixed on the crystal in your hand but Ivar's are focused on your face, with that fondness and adoration you'd become so familiar with. For a long time those blue eyes were your calm ocean on a stress-filled day, the cloudless sky when you couldn't breathe. You only ever found love in his eyes and complete strangers would comment on the way he could never tear them away when you were near.

Without thinking your fingers go to the framed photograph, stroking gently down his face. When did it stop? How long has it been since he looked at you with that love in his eyes? Too long, you suppose.

Your computer pings with a new email and you realise you've been reminiscing through blurry eyes rather than working, distracted by Ivar for approximately the hundredth time this week. With one last long look you pick up the frame and place it purposefully in the cupboard on the other side of the room, closing the door before returning to your desk. As you sit down you shake off the emotions and dry your eyes.

Some things are best left alone. You just wish it didn’t mean tearing your own heart out.

 


	3. Part Three

Ivar closed the door behind you and then led you through the large foyer to an open space encompassing the living and dining room, flowing straight into the kitchen.  
“Wow.”  
“That’s what I said the first time I saw it,” he said with a smile. “Make yourself at home, I’ll fetch some ice.”  
“This seems a little extreme for a twisted ankle,” you called after him. “I’m sure the convenience store would have had ice.”  
He returned a minute later while you were removing your shoes. “Perhaps I wanted an excuse to spend more time with you tonight, after we didn’t get our date.” His smooth hand traced around the swelling. “I don’t think it’s broken but it’s going to be sore.”  
“Are you a doctor now?” you teased.  
“No, I just spend a lot of time with them.” Ivar settled onto the couch beside you. “I’m sorry for the way I reacted, my temper got the better of me and I was completely out of line.”  
“You don’t need to apologise, Ivar,” you said automatically. “I should have called you sooner.”  
“No, even if you’d stood me up without an explanation I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”  
“It’s fine, really.” You leaned in and kissed him, and he stroked your cheek with his thumb, continuing even after your lips parted.   
“Why are you defending me? If I’m an asshole don’t just let it go.”  
You looked at him blankly. “I have to take some responsibility, too. I should have called you.”  
“That doesn’t give me the right to yell at you!”  
“Are we really going to argue about this?”  
“Look, I need to know that if I do or say something inappropriate you’re going to call me out on it.”  
“Okay…” You swallowed hard, wondering if this was really the best idea. “That’s actually what you want? For me to tell you if you’re out of line?”  
“Yes.”  
“All right.”  
_I don’t need another asshole, Ivar. Please, please, be one of the good guys._

“Thank you, it feels better already,” you said on your return from the bathroom a while later. “I should go, you must be tired.”  
Ivar stood and reached for you, kissing you gently when you joined him and wrapping his arm around your waist. “Would you stay with me tonight?”  
“I’d love to.” You smiled and let him lead you to the bedroom, switching off the rest of the lights on the way. Standing beside the bed you draped your arms around his neck and kissed his mouth slowly, letting your tongues explore and dance until you were both out of breath.  
With his forehead resting on yours, Ivar laughed nervously. “I’ve thought about having you in my bed a lot… Can I just hold you?”  
“Of course.”  
Need settled into your belly but you couldn’t deny the attraction of just sleeping in his arms. As your hand went to the zipper of your skirt you hesitated and your attention was caught by the sound of Ivar’s belt buckle.   
_Oh, this is not going to be easy,_  you thought as he pulled his jeans down, sitting on the edge of the bed to kick them off. You watched him swing his legs up onto the bed and swiftly conceal them with the covers, assuming he was hiding the obvious bulge in his boxers.

You were still fully dressed except for shoes when he tugged on the neck of his t-shirt and tossed it off, showing you his smooth and well-defined chest for the first time. With difficulty you forced your gaze upward to his face, trying not to stare at him hungrily even as you felt your own nipples harden.   
Ivar regarded you with a raised eyebrow. “Are you joining me, Socks?” he asked playfully, pulling back the covers on your side and patting the mattress.  
With a shy smile you took off your blouse and laid it on a nearby chair, your skin flushing as you felt Ivar eyeing your lace bra. His breath caught as you unzipped and wiggled out of your skirt, leaving you standing before him in matching magenta lace boyshorts, and you saw him swallow thickly as you turned. Your arms instinctively folded across your stomach, trying to expose a little less skin.   
“You’re very beautiful, Y/n,” Ivar said softly.  
“Thank you.” You bit your lip and strode across to pick up his t-shirt from the floor. “May I borrow this?”  
“I have plenty of clean ones,” he said, laughing.   
You brought it over your head, his sweet scent surrounding you. “This one smells like you, though.” With nimble fingers you unfastened your bra and faced away while removing it and slipping your arms into his shirt, and then climbed into the bed beside him.

Ivar laid out one arm so you could cuddle into him, your head nestled in the side of his neck and your front naturally pressed against his side. He sighed into the darkness and kissed your forehead while his fingertips ghosted up and down your shoulder.   
“Thank you. I suppose this isn’t how you imagined it would be, dating me.”  
“Honestly, no, it isn’t,” you said with a smile. His pulse beat steadily against your cheek and you nuzzled into his neck. “It’s better.”

Ivar laid awake long after your breath had become deep and even and your limbs heavy. Mostly he just listened and enjoyed the feeling of you pressed against him, the berry scent from your hair filling his head, and after a long and emotional evening he joined you in sleep in the early hours of the morning.

You startled awake at your alarm the next morning, realising too late that you’d forgotten to turn it off before falling asleep and stabbing randomly at the phone screen until it ceased its annoyingly cheerful music. At some point during the night you’d turned to your other side and as you settled back down you felt Ivar’s front pressed against your back, his strong arms pulling you back in. He hummed as his lips skimmed over the back of your neck and he fell back into a light sleep, his breath warm on your shoulder. As your body awoke you felt the skin of his stomach against your back and his arm draped over your bare waist where his shirt had ridden up and exposed your midsection, the cotton of his boxers flush against your arse with his hips pushed into yours.

Unable to fall back to sleep but content with cuddling as the sun rose, you eventually turned in his arms, flexing your ankle with a quiet groan. With the warmth from your bodies you’d both kicked off the covers and you had a perfect view of his almost naked form, from the beautiful contours of his chest and abs to his narrow hips and down to your legs as they draped and tangled with his. You often wondered about how exactly they worked, what he felt or didn’t, but even since your first date there hadn’t been any rush – you just knew everything would unfold in time. Now you saw them bare for the first time and felt a dull kick in your stomach, his knees and calves looked painfully knobbled and scarred.

You were startled by his sudden movement, gripping the sheet from behind his back and tossing it over both of you from the waist down.  
“Good morning, beautiful girl,” he said huskily. “Did you sleep well?”  
You swallowed like you’d been caught rummaging through his night stand. “Yes, I did. You?”  
“I like having you in my bed.” Ivar rolled onto his back, hissing softly through gritted teeth before patting his chest. “C’mere.”  
“Are you okay?”  
“M’fine. Nothing to worry about. How is your ankle?”  
“A bit stiff, but it’s okay. Thank you for taking care of me.”  
“I hope to do it often.” His lips pressed gently against your forehead.  
“Why don’t I make breakfast to thank you properly?”  
Ivar tilted your face up and kissed you hungrily, your tongues mingling while his hands clutched at your hips. As you relaxed into his touch and ran a flat hand over his chest and stomach a moan escaped into his mouth before you could stop it, and to your surprise he responded by easily lifting you on top of him without breaking the kiss. Ivar’s hands raked down your back and you shifted to straddle his hips, an unmistakable erection pressing against through the fabric separating you. You had to fight not to grind against it, only because you’d promised to proceed slowly and this felt like someone had stepped hard on the accelerator. A groan rumbled in Ivar’s throat and heightened all of your senses, your nipples hardening against his chest and making him groan again as he felt them through the thin t-shirt.

Finally you pulled back, breathing heavily and smiling down at him as you tentatively rolled your hips and watched his eyes glaze over in response.   
“Fuck…” he whispered, pushing against you. His fingers danced lightly up and down your sides, tickling your ribs until you squirmed and wiggled.  
“Ivar! That tickles,” you stuttered between laughs.  
“Sorry.” His face dropped suddenly and he reached up to kiss you quickly on the lips. “I have to get up.”  
You rolled off and watched him pull his jeans up and take one of the crutches from beside the bed, standing up uncomfortably. “I’ll be back shortly and we’ll get some breakfast.”

When he returned from the bathroom you were still trying to work out what had happened and toying with the idea of getting dressed and going home, but then he leaned in the doorway in nothing but his jeans with that devilish smile.  
“Pancakes?” he asked, offering his hand.  
He refused to let you help, though, instead ordering you to sit on the bench while he cooked, taking a few pictures of you before you had time to protest. This gave you a chance to watch the way he moved and you were quickly fascinated, the way he leaned on one side and always had a hand steadying him on the bench or leaned against it, and yet he was so smooth and easy about it you’d never know anything was different.

With a start you looked up and found his eyes on you, a frown creasing his forehead.  
“What is so interesting to you about my legs today?” he asked.   
You stiffened, unsure of his tone. “Nothing, I was just… I wasn’t even seeing your legs, I was just thinking.”  
“If you have something to ask, just ask.”  
“I don’t, I swear,” you said lightly. “I was checking out your arse a minute ago and then my mind just wandered.” You gesture upward with your hand until he cracks a smile.  
“You’re wondering, though. Right? Wondering why they’re so hideous.”  
You leap down from the bench so fast your ankle almost gives way and you have to swallow a yelp, wrapping your arms around him from behind. “They’re not hideous, Ivar. Why do you say that?”  
“You were looking this morning. I saw you.”  
“I… Fine. I noticed there were scars, I did not for one second think anything negative. Why would you think that?”  
“They are the legs of a cripple.” He flips the last pancake onto a large plate and turns off the heat but remains with his back to you until you pull hard enough to turn him around. “See? You don’t even handle me because you think I might fall over.”  
“I was being gentle in case you really didn’t want to look at me, that’s all. I don’t think that, they’re just… legs. Your legs. Actually, I’ve watched you on some of the leg machines at the gym and quite admired them.”  
“Do you have any idea the number of times Travis has had to stop them because I couldn’t handle it? You’re tiny and you have more weight on the leg press than I do.”  
“What does that have to do with anything?”  
He sighed and handed you the pancakes, leading you to the table and sitting down in one of the chairs. “It’s just… you’re so beautiful, I never imagined we’d actually make it this far. Now you’re here and you want more… and you’ve seen me.”

And it dawns on you, what Travis said about Ivar’s bravado is true. For all of his cockiness and charm, there is an insecure side to Ivar that he doesn’t show until he’s invested and comfortable, until he’s confident you won’t just walk away. But the worry is always there – in his fear of disappointing you in bed; in his assumption that you’d stood him up; trying to cover up his misshapen legs – you watch him pile pancakes onto his plate and wonder if it would ever truly disappear.   
You reach across and take his hand, waiting until he looks at you before you speak. “Ivar, I don’t know if this will work out or not, god knows there are a hundred reasons it won’t. I can assure you, though, that it won’t end because of your physical appearance or whether I can leg press more than you. Okay?”  
Ivar nodded thoughtfully. “Why have your other relationships ended?”  
You bristled and took a long time spreading syrup over your breakfast, as though if you took long enough he’d forget he asked and move on. “Cheating, mostly. Them, not me. The last one was a mean drunk, I ended it.”  
His hands clenched into fists. “At least you’d have found that one out early on?”  
“No.” You shook your head and shuddered. “I knew after a few months but it took two years to break it off.”  
“Why?”  
“Can we talk about something else?”  
“Sure.” He shifted in his chair and changed the subject but even while you were finishing your coffee later he was eyeing you sympathetically. “I’m really sorry, Y/n.”  
“It’s fine,” you said. “It’s done. That is why I prefer to argue in public, though.”  
“Fuck! I had no idea, you must have thought I was a complete asshole!”  
“No, because when I stood my ground you listened. That’s the difference.”

The weather had turned miserable by lunchtime and a one night stay quickly extended into early evening. You’d expected to be working over the weekend but now that you assumed you’d be reprimanded for your actions on Friday night – and probably losing your firm a huge client – it seemed less important than laying in Ivar’s lap.   
“I have to tell you something,” he said as he let the strands of your soft hair fall through his fingers onto his legs.   
“Mm?” You turned onto your back to look up at him.  
He puffed the air from his lungs and then drew a slow breath. “I’m not… I’m not good in bed. I’m not experienced and I can’t… you know…” he gestures and his cheeks began to flush, “satisfy a woman.”  
You reached up and caressed his cheek. “Okay… Firstly, I can satisfy myself if it comes to that. Secondly, just because you’re inexperienced doesn’t mean you can’t. Every woman likes different stuff, we’ll work it out together. Unless you’re trying to say you don’t want to.”  
“I do… Fuck, I’ve never wanted it so bad.” He laughs. “You shouldn’t have to teach me.”  
You shrug and lean up to kiss him. “I dunno, it kind of sounds like fun.”  
When his fingers went back to dragging long strokes through your hair, your eyes fluttered closed and you listened to his steady breath over the rain on the roof. He realised a few minutes later when your head grew heavy on his leg that he’d lulled you to sleep, your body relaxing into him and the couch with tiny little sighs. For a while Ivar watched you sleep and he couldn’t resist taking a few pictures before turning on the television and settling in to listen to a movie as he admired the beautiful woman sleeping on his lap and wondered how he’d been so fortunate.

Ivar’s first sexual experience happened as a teenager, a result of a dare at a party with his brothers. The woman – if she was old enough to call her that, he never found out if she was more than mid-teens herself – was engaged on the basis of giving Ivar his first and probably only encounter, and as such she treated him as no more than a pity fuck. His doctors at the time had danced around the topic of sex and never really told him how best to prepare or what to expect, but since he’d had erections just like his brothers he assumed it would be straightforward and enjoyable as it was for anyone else.

Of course he knows better, now. He has research, internet forums, and doctors who are open and honest. Still, after the humiliation of his first attempt he vowed not to bother a second time, and he hadn’t intended to change that until you came along. You’ve made him want things he never cared about before, opened his eyes to possibilities he had dismissed. From a young age Ivar learned to cover for his physical shortcomings and obvious difference with bravado and a facade of total confidence, so much so that he almost believed it himself. When he decided to leave the note in your locker – something he’d never done before, but he’d never been affected by someone as he had when you’d walked in that door – the cocky alpha part of his brain was in control, but he second guessed himself for the rest of the day. Seeing you again the next day gave him hope that you might just be as nervous as he was, and so he left the second, writing the letters with a shaking hand and slipping it in and out of your locker twenty times before pushing it all the way through and walking away.

“Shhh,” he whispered when you frowned in your sleep. He wanted to ask what exactly your ex had done to you, he was crushed by the idea that he’d triggered something by trying to take your argument to a more private setting. He smiled as you relaxed against him, stroking your cheek with the back of his fingers, but a tightness grew in his stomach as he recalled that night, his anger growing almost out of his control. Initially he was concerned something had happened, you’d never ignored his calls before and you’d texted earlier in the day saying you were excited about seeing him, but seeing you when he walked past the bar was like a kick in the guts with hot rage. While he waited for you outside your building he’d made a commitment to keep a better lid on his temper, painfully aware that if he were to let it take over he would lose you.

 _You can’t just behave any way you like, Ivar._ His father told him.  _You will end up in jail, or worse, completely alone._

He heeded that advice, mostly, and kept his impulses under control. It was easier here, with people who knew him only for what he could do, not for the sickly child he had been or the laughing stock of a teenager when word got around that his prick didn’t work. Until now, though, he didn’t understand how ‘alone’ could be worse than jail. He still didn’t fully comprehend how deep his feelings for you ran, but already there were few fates he could think of that would be more painful than losing you.

A few days later you grumbled when your phone buzzed for the twentieth time that hour, wishing you could just have some peace. The message brought a smile to your face, though, amidst all the other client requests:

_[Have you seen this beautiful creature? She was inhabiting my kitchen and bedroom and I’d like her to do so more often…]_

_[Hope you’re having a great day, Socks. See you soon? xxx]_

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Two years later that weekend and the resultant photographs are dragged back to the forefront of his mind, and he grumbles about unhelpful technology while tossing his phone onto the other side of the bed.   
“Revisit this day,” he says mockingly. “Relive your pain all over again. Fuck.” He scrubs both hands over his face and retrieves the device, flicking through the photos he apparently captured two years earlier when you sat on his kitchen bench while he made breakfast. A bittersweet smile makes him bite his lip painfully., obviously he can remove the prints from the refrigerator and the frames from the wall, will it help if he turns off these reminders, too? More likely the universe will just find some other way to allude to the biggest mistake of his life.   
 _How did he ever keep his hands off you? How was his fear so great that you could be right there in only your underwear and his shirt and he was so frozen he didn’t just take you over the bench?_

He did, eventually. There’s photographic evidence of that as well, in a 'never to be shared’ folder buried deep in his files.

Ivar missed those early days, now. When he trusted you with his innermost secrets, the ones that could hurt him the most, and you took them in your stride just like everything else. He wished for nothing more than to be able to slay the monstrous anger that gnashed its disgusting teeth every time he saw you with another man, but it was too strong. It was only ever a matter of time.

Ivar knew the moment it happened, the exact millisecond he lost your trust. Your hair whipped around your face as you spun your head around to look at him and your eyes no longer held pure love but hurt and fury, maybe even a hint of fear. He couldn’t live with you being afraid of him.

“Don’t walk away from me!” he roared, reaching out from where he sat to grip your arm. The doubt had begun to seep in from the first day of your new position, when suddenly you weren’t complaining about Carly’s outrageous demands but instead working later hours willingly, sharing take-out with your fellow junior partner, James.   
His tone sent a cold stab of fear down your spine. With that one statement – one painful squeeze that only lasted a split second – all of the promises, the confessions of love, the creative ways you’d worked around the limitations in the bedroom; it was all undone. He released you immediately and stood so fast he stumbled in the doorway, but the damage was done.   
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”  
You turned before opening the door, your face contorted with emotion and soaked with hot, angry tears. “I knew it. You couldn’t change, and you never will. You’re no better than the rest.”  
All the way home those words echoed in your head, cold and calculated. You were hurt and your instinct was to hurt him back, even though you knew they weren’t true before you spoke them. Too late to take them back now, though. In all the time you’d been together, all you’d persevered through while Ivar attempted to deal with his anger and aggression, he never looked away first until that day.


	4. Part Four

_It doesn't get much better than this,_ you thought as you tried to blink away the shard of morning sun illuminating the bedroom.   
Ivar's warm breath was on your neck, his arms tight around your waist, his bed now familiar enough that you spent at least a couple of nights a week there. In the month since your promotion the hours had only grown longer and often the only time you had together was when you arrived late at night and shared a drink before bed, but your weekends were always at his house, even if it meant taking work with you. The only thing missing from this picture of perfection was the thing you refused to think about, the thing you swore wasn't a necessary part of a relationship, the thing you wanted so badly and yet couldn't bring yourself to ask for.

If anyone had told you that this far into a relationship you'd still not have had sex, you'd have laughed at them. You were always in favour of finding out if the chemistry and physical compatibility was strong early on, and yet here you were in a sexless arrangement and pretending it didn't bother you at all. You wanted it not to bother you. You tried so hard to be the woman who could say it wasn't at all important and mean it with all your heart, but Ivar was so warm and smooth, soft and firm in all the right places, that the array of toys you kept in your nightstand weren't completely calming the fire in your belly anymore.

As you turned in his arms Ivar groaned in his sleep and rolled to his back, letting you rest your head on his bare chest. Only in the last weeks you'd come to realise how the chronic pain of his condition affected his moods, and begun to comprehend how frustrating it must be to have his body ache every hour of the day. A tiny sigh escaped your lips as your hand rested on his contoured stomach, watching it expand and fall with his breath. Waking up with him was, without doubt, the best start to your days, and you missed him terribly when you weren't together or you slept alone.

“Good morning, _min snuskebasse_.” His voice was deep and gravelly, enough to make your skin prickle with goosebumps. From the first time he used the term you've loved it, even before you knew what it meant, he said it with such affection. You were still more often than not referred to as 'Socks', except when he was feeling especially romantic.   
You hummed and kissed his jaw. “Good morning.”  
Your phone pinged with a new message but when you tried to reach for it Ivar held you tight against his chest, until you giggled and squirmed and he released you with a huff. It was a message from James, letting you know he finished off a proposal last night so you didn't have to rush in to the office early this morning.   
“Thanks to James I don't have to rush off today,” you said with a smile, reaching up to kiss his lips.  
“I doubt I'll be thanking him for anything but it's nice he's not monopolising you for a change,” Ivar grumbled.

You straddle his thighs and let the weight of your top half rest on top of him, silencing him with a deep, slow kiss. Ivar’s hands threaded into your hair and then travelled down your sides, beneath the hem of your t-shirt to skim over the bare skin of your waist and ribs. Softly moaning into his mouth you lowered your body flush against him and felt his stirring erection below your navel, felt it harden further as you pressed down against him and moved ever so subtly back and forth while you nibbled his bottom lip. Already your panties were soaked, your hardened nipples brushing deliciously against the fabric between you and his hard chest, a shudder running up your spine at the rumbling growl in his throat. How much longer would you have to restrain your hunger for him?

With a whimper you released him and brushed the loose hair back from his face.   
“You are so beautiful,” he said, stroking your cheek and running a light finger over your tingling lips. “It is surely a crime to leave you in bed but I have to get up.”  
You pouted down at him.  
“Socks, I’m not playing. Let me up.”  
And just like that you were left in bed alone, wincing at every hiss and groan of pain as he made his way down the hall, jumping when the bathroom door banged shut. It didn’t escape your notice that he used both crutches this morning where some days he could make it without either, nor did the rattle of pills in a bottle a few minutes later.

You rolled onto Ivar’s pillow and breathed in his scent as he started the shower, your fingers wandering to your wet and swollen folds. Even as you opened your legs wider and slipped two fingers inside, found your g-spot while your other hand rubbed your juices over your clit, you felt guilty about touching yourself like this while Ivar was right there, but you had to somehow relieve the ache that threatened to drive you insane. Conscious of being caught you built up quickly, the pads of your fingers thrumming over your throbbing bud while you ground your g-spot on the other hand, biting back all but the softest of moans as you imagined Ivar’s hands, Ivar’s mouth, Ivar’s cock pleasuring you and driving you hard to the crest of your orgasm, crying out a low whine as you clamped down on your own fingers and released a long, shaky breath.

A louder breath halted abruptly just beyond the doorway, and you felt rather than saw Ivar shrinking back into the shadows. You waited in silence, only moving enough to remove your hands and face the window, and startled when he spoke.  
“The shower is all yours, Socks.”  
“Thanks,” you said, not daring to look at him. Only when you heard him starting on the coffee did you slip out of his bed and dart the few steps to the bathroom, hoping a good hot shower would at least make a fine excuse for your rosy red cheeks.

With his pain dulled to a bearable level, Ivar busied himself while you showered so that when you emerged he was waiting back in the bed with coffees, fruit, and croissants for you both. He had a plan and was determined not to lose one more moment of your attention to your sleazy colleague, so when your phone rang and you weren’t available to answer it the choice he made was a simple one.

While he waited he fidgeted with the sheet, took off his undershorts only to worry it was too much and put them back on, then took them off again and covered his genitals with the covers. Hearing you pleasure yourself had frozen him to the spot, your sweet little moans and the heavy sigh of your orgasm waking something he’d pushed to the back of his mind.   
_What if she’s thinking about_ him _?  
_ Unable to entertain the thought of you in bed with James, even if only in your mind, Ivar had decided this was the time for action. After a dose of painkillers to soothe the agony in his spine and legs he made breakfast and returned to the bedroom with the tray, being sure to check the bedside drawer one last time for the appropriate supplies: condoms, lubricant, and a box of pills the doctor gave him last week in the hope of overcoming any potential problems. His hand shook a little as he sipped from his mug and heard you shut off the water, the taunts of his brothers still ringing in his ears, barely dampened by the years between.  
 _‘It’s ok, Boneless. You’ll find some lovely cuntless woman and adopt a bunch of grubby parentless urchins.’_  
‘It happens to everyone, Ivar. Wait... no, I’ve got a boner now, just like that! Poor boy can’t join the army or get it up.’  
‘Can’t even get a sympathy fuck to ease his pain. Our poor little boneless cripple.’

“Ivar?” you asked again softly.   
He looked up at you, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Hey, beautiful girl. Come.” He patted the bed beside him and smiled.  
“What’s this?” you asked, fastening the towel around your chest.   
“I was hoping you might spend the day with me. Take a day off.”  
“Ivar, I can’t – ”  
“James called,” he interrupted, “so I said you weren’t feeling great and he suggested you have a day off. I couldn’t agree more, so I called in sick.”  
You weren’t sure whether to be angry or impressed, but your mind was made up when you looked down and saw he was naked beneath the sheet. “I guess one day can’t hurt.”

Before you sat down beside him you hesitated, wondering if you should get dressed. Was the object here not to arouse him too much too fast, or was it best to give it your all and see what happened? And why the hell were you suddenly so nervous when you’re the experienced one in this situation?  
Deep down you knew the answer to that, you just didn’t want to admit it. You always assumed that didn’t happen until much further down the road, and at least after you’d had sex.   
While Ivar was taking a mouthful of coffee you slipped the towel off and smiled when you heard him choke a little. Once you were comfortable and mostly covered with the sheet you mustered the courage to look him in the eyes, finding them red and watering.  
“Are you okay?”  
He held a fist up in front of his mouth and coughed a few times. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Hot coffee, went down the wrong way.”  
“Right.”  
You tore a piece from a croissant and popped the flaky pastry into your mouth, trying to calm the heat in your cheeks as you both ate in silence.

“God, Y/n, you are just... so fucking beautiful. How did I get so lucky?”  
The blush that had just begun to fade flared right back up. “Thank you, Ivar. I feel just as fortunate, knowing you actually care about me and want to know me. I’m honoured that you’ve trusted me this far.”  
“How could I not?” He sucked a strawberry between his lips and nibbled the end, and whether he was deliberately being seductive no longer mattered.   
Your insides fluttered with nerves and arousal, your pupils widening as you watched intently until the small fruit was gone. Ivar held one out for you and you bit it off at the stem, leaving the hull between his fingers with a mischievous smile and licking your lips. The remaining fruit was quickly devoured with increasingly ridiculous slurping and sucking until you were both in fits of laughter, Ivar setting aside the empty plate to move over and lap some peach juice from your chin.

Ivar’s lips worked their way to yours and the kiss turned from playful to passionate, the sheet pulled away so his skin was against yours. Your hand rested gently on his chest, grazing occasionally over his hard nipple and eliciting a sharp breath each time. When he pulled away your heart raced and he felt it in his lips and tongue as he kissed the pulse in your neck before his eyes met yours. Tentatively he dragged his fingertips down from your shoulder, around beneath your breast before cupping it in his hand, his wide, fascinated blue eyes almost childlike. The pad of his thumb brought it to a hardened point, circling and rubbing back and forth, his gaze alternating between your face and breasts. As his confidence grew he kneaded and tweaked with more pressure, and you covered his hand with yours to pinch and squeeze even harder, gasping at the shocks his touch sent to your core.

You threaded your fingers in his soft hair and combed them down to the back of his neck as he licked his lips eagerly and took your nipple in his warm mouth. Only the first suck was gentle, it was immediately followed by teeth dragging at your skin and his tongue flicking hard and fast around and over your peak. With a low cry you arched your back in a silent plea for more, his mouth now working one side and his hand the other, and when he switched sides he pressed a knee between your legs. It was all you could do not to rut against it and cover his leg in your juices.   
“Ivar...”  
He hummed in response, his eyes finding yours, and he grinned as he lapped at the hard peak before working his way back up, pausing to nip at your neck and jaw and claiming your mouth with a searing kiss.  
“I love the taste of your skin,” he said when you broke for air, kissing a path back down over your shoulder.

Between his nips and lick at your skin you felt his weight shift and his hand making its way down your stomach. At the patch of soft hair atop your mound he hesitated and pulled back to circle your belly button, propping his head in his hand and gazing down at your body for a few moments. When you tried to reach for him he shook his head.   
“Not yet, beautiful. I want to make you feel good first.'  
“You already are,” you said, tracing circles on his muscled shoulder.   
“Yes, but... really good.” He waited until your eyes met, his tongue darting out to wet his lips before he spoke. “I want to make you come. Like you did, earlier. I want your sweet little moans to be for me, and I want to hear you scream my name.”  
You coloured at the mention of being caught this morning. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have – ”  
“Of course you should. I assumed you would occasionally... you know. I didn't expect you to be doing it in my bed while I showered, but...”  
“That was because I woke up next to you. I promised not to pressure you – and I won't, if you want to stop or whatever, that's fine – but I just get so fucking turned on being beside you in bed.”  
Ivar's eyes darkened but somehow at the same time he looked a little sheepish. “I didn't think about it like that.”   
His hand was on your thigh, now, tracing up and down the inside, a little higher each time, watching intently as he tugged gently on your leg to part them and inched closer to your heat. Your breath caught in your throat as he finally made contact, barely touching your labia but enough for you to bite down on your lip.

“So sensitive,” he said with a smile, pressing the tip of one finger between them and dipping into your wetness. The only sound was your shallow breath and the rush of blood in your ears, the occasional wet sound of his fingers playing in your juices as he spread them around.   
A grin spread across Ivar's face as he grew bolder, pressing harder and rubbing back and forth between your folds, gliding a finger or two inside, and you began rolling your hips against him eagerly. You moaned as his lips closed around your breast, biting your nipple just hard enough to send shocks of pleasure down to your core.   
“Tell me what you need,” he whispered low in your ear. “Show me.”

You took his wrist and guided his fingers into you slowly until you whimpered at that delicious spongy spot inside. “There,” you said softly. “Feel that?”  
Ivar nodded and grinned, thrusting and pulling his fingers in and out, being sure to rub over it every time. Again you gripped his forearm to slow him and reached down to find his thumb, pressing the pad between your lips and up against your swollen bud, shuddering with pleasure as he took the lead and circled it slowly. Your sigh spurred him on and he continued in a steady rhythm, his mouth nibbling at your breasts, neck, and shoulders as you began to pant and writhe beneath him.  
“Oh god, Ivar,” you cried out as your hands clawed at his shoulder and chest. “Please don't stop.”  
Ivar's gaze took in every inch of you, from your sweat-slick chest and sharp pointed nipples, down your abs, rolling with your hips as you pressed against him for more friction, to your legs spread impossibly wide as his hand moved rhythmically between them.   
He leaned in so close to your ear his breath warmed the shell, your eyes falling closed as the sensation sent shivers down your body. “So fucking gorgeous, your sweet little pussy is so wet and tight, and your moans... fuck, you're making me hard.”  
His words brought you to the edge. “ 'M so close...” you choked out between breathy moans.

As your walls tightened on his fingers he smiled against your neck, sucking a love bite there as you gripped his forearm to back his thumb away from your over-stimulated clit. His fingers continued in and out lazily as you came down, gasping for breath until he covered your mouth with his and kissed you long and hard.  
“Wow,” he said, withdrawing his fingers and sucking your essence from the tips.  
“Never again can you say you can't pleasure a woman. That was amazing.”   
“Well I haven't done anything yet you can't do yourself.”  
“Ivar, listen to me.” You guided him onto his back and kissed his neck until you felt his groan through your lips, moving down to lick and nip at his chest, playfully biting his nipples before speaking again. “This isn't just about getting off. It's not even about sex, it just brings us closer. It's you paying attention to my body and reading it, touching the right places at the right times. I can make myself come in a matter of minutes but it's not the same as what you just gave me.”

Ivar's fingers combed tenderly through your hair as your mouths met once more, your hand skimming down his torso to find his erection. He moaned into your kiss as you palmed him through the thin fabric of the sheet, feeling him grow further beneath your touch. You released his lips and crawled back down his body, carefully running a hand down one leg to his ankle but stopping when you heard his sharp breath.  
“Does that hurt?”  
He shook his head. “I can hardly feel it.”  
His cock was pink and smooth, the head swollen and proud as it bobbed against his stomach. Ivar hissed as you cupped his heavy balls in one hand and then closed your fingers around the base of his shaft, covering your hand with his own.   
“I want to be inside you,” he said thickly. “Please.”

He watched intently as you straddled him, his hands gently guiding and rubbing your hips and thighs until you were hovering above his cock, his smooth head nestled in your folds. You drew breath and kissed his neck, forcing the conversation you hoped wouldn't break the mood.   
“I'm on birth control, so I'm good without a condom as long as you are, but I have one if you want it.”  
Ivar chuckled. “I don't want anything between us, beautiful. Just you and me.”  
“Good.” You pressed back slowly, letting him breach and enter you before pulling off to go again, a little deeper each time.   
Already his fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, keeping your movements controlled as his breath carried deep moans on held lungfuls of air, his jaw set firm until you kissed away some of the tension. You sighed as you sank all the way down his shaft and rolled your hips, planting a sucking wet kiss over his heart.   
“Oh... gods...” he panted, moving against you.

You braced your hands on his firm chest and started to rock back and forth with more force, grinding your sensitive bud on his pubic bone. Ivar watched in awe as you moaned and your muscles gripped his shaft, kneading your breasts when your breath turned shallow. You could feel another orgasm just out of reach but focused your attention on a steady rhythm.  
“Wait,” he whispered, his eyes rolling back. You backed off a little and Ivar's body turned rigid beneath you, a hissing cry forced out through his gritted teeth as you felt the tiny flutters in your cunt, his fingers leaving bruises on your hips as he held you still with his cock deep inside.   
Ivar's face glistened with sweat, and you lightly traced over his frown until it relaxed and he looked up at you, his rapid pants making his chest and torso roll in waves beneath you. Pushing the soaked hair back from his face you were overcome with emotion, an unexpected lump choking your voice.  
“I... I love you, Ivar.”  
Without waiting for an answer you covered his mouth with yours, kissing him in a clash of teeth and tongues as you fought not to continue rubbing against his softening cock.

Ivar abruptly pulled back, holding your face in both hands, his eyes wide with alarm.   
“I have to get up.”  
You tried not to read anything in to the way he practically threw you off onto the bed, or the way he darted so rapidly for the bathroom he stumbled into the nightstand and almost fell through the door before it banged shut behind him. The minutes that passed found you bewildered and wishing you could take back the words you'd spilled in the heat of the moment, not because they were untrue but to halt his reaction. For a few seconds you even considered gathering your clothes and leaving with what little dignity you still held.

Finally Ivar emerged, refusing to meet your gaze as he made his way slowly and unsteadily back into the bed and lay down in obvious discomfort.   
“I hurt you, didn't I?” you asked in a tiny voice.  
“No, beautiful girl, no. I'm sorry I worried you, it was nothing like that.” He pushed himself up to sitting, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “I love you too, Socks,” he said with a beaming smile.   
“What happened?”  
“I'd rather not ruin the mood with a biology lesson if it's all the same to you. I'll explain later, everything is fine. Better than fine, actually.” His cheeks flushed pink as he lay back down, pulling you with him. “That was... magic. Short, but magic.”  
“Worth waiting for. Ivar, you have a lovely cock.”  
He laughed and shook his head. “Thank you. There are things we can do, I have medication to help it get properly hard and stay that way. I'm really grateful that you've been so patient.”  
“If that's what _you_ want, I'm all for it. I wanted this to be a pleasurable experience, help you forget about the first time. And it was perfect.”   
“Sex is different with someone who loves you, I think.”  
You nuzzled into his neck to get comfortable. “Yeah, I think you're right.”

The pictures of you laying together that day were never displayed for anyone else, but they remained among your favourites. Ivar's eyes were such a deep blue you were mesmerised no matter how many times you'd looked at them before, and you both looked so blissful and happy.

## *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

You'd stumbled across those pictures earlier today, but there's no way you could know Ivar had done the same, that it had been those same pictures that made him try calling you one last time. It was those irresistible blue eyes that stayed with you and stabbed at your heart when you saw his number on the screen, the genuine loved-up smiles that made you answer.  
“Hello, Ivar,” you said quietly.  
“Y/n, I didn't think you'd pick up. Can we talk, over coffee or a drink?”  
“I don't think that's a good idea. I'm sorry, I don't really have anything to say.”  
“I do. I have a lot to say.”  
You know what he'd say. He's sorry and it won't happen again. Until it does.  
“I can't do it any more, Ivar. I can' live like that again.”  
“You said you loved me.”  
“Don't.”  
“Do you remember?”  
“Of course, you know I do.”  
“Then come home, Socks. Please.”  
You sighed and rubbed at your temples. “What's changed?”  
“I'll do better, I promise. I trust you. I love you.”  
“It's not enough, Ivar. You need help.”  
There was a solid thud on the other end and you heard him curse under his breath. “All I need is you, Y/n.”  
“No. I can't do it any more.”   
James stood in the doorway. “How long until you're ready for this meeting?”  
“Five minutes?” you said with a tight smile.   
He nodded and walked away, just as the tirade from the other end of the phone started.  
“You're fucking that asshole, aren't you?”  
“You know I wouldn't do that.”  
“How would I know that?”  
“Ivar, I'm sorry it's come to this, but this is exactly why I can't come home. Please don't call me again, and go talk to someone who can help you.”  
Tears spill onto your cheeks as you lower the phone and end the call. The sick, twisted truth was that you missed Ivar terribly, despite his jealousy and unpredictable rages growing so far out of control you'd had no choice but to move out. Your heart told you with absolute certainty that he'd never physically harm you, that his anger was never intended to upset you, but your brain had heard that same excuse from so many abuse victims you could no longer be sure what was real. God knows you loved him and just wanted him to get help to manage it so you could feel safe from his temper, but he was adamant the only problem was James and the way he looked at you, or the way he knew in his gut that you'd run off with someone better if the opportunity presented itself. Every day you'd fought to earn his trust, make him see that you'd chosen him and you loved only him, but it soon became exhausting and you began to resent his constant need for reassurance and explosive temperament.

The final straw was placed a few long weeks ago, when you found him propped up on pillows in bed, immediately feeling the kick in the guts you always got when he'd had a pain-filled day and you were late. If only he'd said something earlier you'd have tried to get out of the office early and put in extra time tomorrow, but he never did, always insisting he didn't want to call you just to complain.   
“I'm sorry, love. Is there anything I can do for you now?”  
“Are you? Really?”  
You sighed and stepped out of your skirt, bracing for a fight you wouldn't even have to engage in to add fuel, you knew by now he just had to burn himself out.  
“In any case it's too late now.”  
As you sat down on the edge of the bed you could feel him seething, and without even looking you knew his nostrils were flared with ragged breaths, his hands balled into fists as he chose his words. This was the time to diffuse the situation, you thought. So many times you'd tried to do just that, in this moment of quiet as the storm brewed and picked up strength, but apparently you didn't know the right words and inevitably made it worse.

This time was different. His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm and controlled – if still shaky with contained rage – and his words were precisely selected.  
“I know that you love me. Do you love me enough to leave your job?”  
You considered your response as you lay down on the pillow. “You mean to work for another firm?”  
“Perhaps.”  
“Ivar, my love, if I thought that would solve anything I would tender my resignation right now, but I fail to see how it would help. Is it that you want me away from any man who might potentially develop an attraction to me, or is it that you want me here and available to you at all times?”  
“That man has been eroding our relationship from the beginning, thinking he owns you and can expect your attention at all hours of the day.”  
You fought the urge to roll your eyes, your own thoughts dripping with sarcasm. _How dare James expect me to put in an equal effort?_  
“I've been working with James almost the entire time, Ivar. You can't blame him for anything.”  
“Two years he's been trying to break us up, calling you late at night, insisting you stay at the office late, and you've defended him every step of the way. I'm fucking tired of it, I want it to stop.”  
“No,” you said softly, and waited.  
“That's what I thought.” He turned over and switched off his light.   
“This isn't about James, it's about trust. If you can't trust me then it doesn't matter where or if I work.”  
“Bullshit!” he shouted. “It's you keeping your options open, because I'm not the kind of man you're going to marry and have children with!”  
“Are we really here again? For the last time, I don't care about that. It's difficult, it has risks, I get it. I just want to be with you, Ivar, exactly as you are.”  
“Then why won't you make this small sacrifice to keep us together?”  
“Because it isn't a small sacrifice, it's my career! You claim to love me but you don't trust me or my love for you. Nothing I give up can change that, and I've never given you a reason not to trust me, so this has to come from you.” You lowered your voice and drew a deep breath. “You had a really difficult upbringing, Ivar. I understand where this anger and lack of faith in people comes from, I truly do, but you can't expect me to just keep allowing for it and being your verbal punching bag.”

After a couple of sleepless hours on the couch you heard his uneven steps down the hall and closed your eyes, his heavy sigh tugging at your heart as he sank to the floor and laid his head beside yours.   
“ _Min snuskebasse_ ,” he whispered between sobs. “I am sorry. I love you and I'm so afraid to lose you. Please come back to bed?”  
You let him lead you, let him hold you in his arms and kiss you slowly while apologising over and over, heard his promises and fell into a restless sleep.

When Ivar woke the following morning you'd already packed everything you could take with you.  
“What is this? What are you doing?”  
“Ivar,” you said, setting down a large tote bag by the front door before crossing back to him and taking his hands. “This isn't working, I'm only making you more and more angry and insecure.”  
“So you're leaving me?”  
“I can't do it any more. I'm sorry. I love you, but I can't bear the brunt of your anger any longer.”  
“And what am I supposed to do, hm? Just let you walk out?” He shook his head. “No. You stay and we will work on our problems together.”  
“I am leaving, and yes, you will let me walk out. I have tried to help you, but it's not enough.” You leaned in and kissed his cheek, half expecting him to recoil. “I have to go.”

You hoped that your departure would encourage him to talk to someone and begin to deal with his anger, and even now you held on to the idea that you could be with him again, but that phone call only left you disappointed.   
“Hey. You ready?” James snapped you out of the unpleasant memory, moving further toward you when he noticed your blanched complexion and tear-stained cheeks. “What's wrong? Was that Ivar?”  
“Yeah,” you said thickly, wiping your face. “I'm good, let's go.”

 


	5. Part Five

Hiding a yawn behind your hand you stashed your bag in a gym locker and bent to tie your shoes, smiling like a love-sick teenager upon hearing Ivar working out and talking with Travis just a few metres away.   
“Dude, slow down. That’s plenty.”  
Ivar grunted and blew out a sharp breath, dropping the weights with a startling crash. “I did more last week.”  
“What is going on with you today?” Travis asked.   
You knew you shouldn't eavesdrop, but you took your time and continued listening, concerned at the grit and frustration in Ivar's voice.  
“It's nothing. I just hate feeling weak, you know?”  
“I'm not sure I follow, you're one of the strongest guys I know.”  
“Upper body, yeah. But not where it counts.”  
“Oh, so this is about nocturnal activities... that's all in the core, my friend.”  
You stifled a laugh with your knee, still slowly fumbling with your shoe lace.   
“I have to keep this woman, Travis. There's another man and I'm sure she'll get tired of things being different and end up in bed with him.”  
“Ivar, she loves _you_. I see it in the way she looks at you, I always have. You can't seriously think she'd cheat on you.”  
“It's not like I'd know, is it? She works late every fucking night with that... that _r_ _ø_ _vhul_! He could be doing anything with her and I'd never know, the other night she didn't answer her phone for two hours and I was ready to go in there and catch them in the act until she called me back.”  
“What did she say?”  
“Her phone was on silent because they were in a video call in another room.”  
“But you don't believe her?”  
Ivar sighed loudly. “I want to. The thought of her with another man, it makes my blood boil.”  
You heard the rhythmic clack of his crutch as he moved away, and when Travis spoke again his voice was softer, from the furthest corner.   
“You have to get a grip on this and trust her, you can't go assuming every time she works late she's sleeping with someone else. They probably really are just working, she doesn't strike me as the kind of woman who would keep you on the string while she fucks her workmate. That would take a special kind of bitch, to do that to you.”  
“Yeah, you're right. I mean people cheat all the time, but surely no one with a heart would do it to _this_!”  
“You know that's not what I meant, Ivar. Here, get on the bench and do a couple of fly sets, I'll be back in a minute. Don't hurt yourself.”

Travis' approaching footsteps were clear as day but you were frozen to the spot, horrified that Ivar would really have so little faith in you. All too late you considered darting back out the door, and then Travis leaned on the other side of the desk with a heavy sigh, facing your direction. It wassn't until you made to stand that the movement caught his eye and he glared at you before coming closer and behind the lockers where Ivar couldn't see.  
“How long have you been here?” he whispered.  
“Long enough. I'd never cheat on him, Travis. I love him.”  
“I know.” He sighed and raked a hand back through his short hair.   
“How do I make him see that, get past that insecurity?”  
He shrugged. “I'm a trainer, not a therapist.”

For the next few days you showered Ivar with affection as much as possible while still fulfilling your work responsibilities. He didn't know that you'd overheard his conversation or discussed anything with Travis, you just snuck up to him at the gym and planted a passionate kiss hello on his lips as though nothing had happened. In the month since the first time, you'd had sex a handful of times with varying degrees of success, but you couldn't seem to convince him that you were enjoying the exploration and finding out what worked, learning about his body, and that you weren't bothered that he had to get straight up to use the bathroom every time. Now that you understood there was a physiological reason behind it you just enjoyed the naked snuggles upon his return.

Finally you saw an opportunity and booked a whole afternoon off work, using the key he'd given you to let yourself in and be ready in his bed when he arrived home from work to find a note on the door that simply said 'honey, I'm home'.   
“Oh my... you beautiful goddess. What did I do to deserve this?”  
You were stretched out across the bed with one arm bent up to support your head, stockinged legs crossed with black patent leather pumps on your feet and the sexiest black lace lingerie you could find on your last minute shopping expedition.   
“Just because I love you and I want you to know how important you are to me. From now until Monday I'm all yours. No work, no phone calls, just us.”  
Ivar smiled. “You didn't have to go to all this trouble, that alone has made my a happy man.” He moved to the bed and sat down, resting his crutch against the side while he kissed you before toeing off his shoes. “But seeing as you have, I'm going to ravish every inch of that gorgeous body.”  
You shivered in anticipation, shifting to lay your head on the pillow while Ivar undressed to his shorts. Your teeth dragged over your bottom lip at the sight of him, his smooth muscled chest and shoulders making you groan aloud. He released his hair from its ponytail so it fell about his face and brushed his neck, tucking the soft locks behind his ears before he lay beside you and took your mouth in a deep kiss.   
“I love you, Ivar,” you whispered against his lips.  
“I love you too, baby.”

Ivar's mouth and hands found every last inch of your skin, teasing their way slowly down your chest to your straining nipples and coaxing each one into a painfully hard peak before he moved on. Down over your ribs and stomach, tickling it with grazes of his nose and biting playfully at your belly button, sucking the skin over your hips, down... and down... nipping and licking patterns on your thighs as he parted your legs and paused upon further inspection of your sex. His blue eyes darkened as he looked up at you from between your legs, his hands roaming your torso.   
“You did this for me?” He referred to your now completely smooth lips and pussy, only a manicured heart remaining on your mound.   
You nodded, suddenly feeling shy and self conscious, unable to fully read his expression. “Is it... do you like it?”  
He kissed the heart and let his tongue dip down just barely to your lips. “Very much.”  
All at once his mouth was on you, savouring your taste and the smoothness of your folds, the sensation on his tongue and tingle in his mouth as he took his time to kiss your heat. He probed your cunt with a pointed tongue until you moaned and ground against his face, an orgasm building so slowly inside you felt you were being driven insane.

“You taste fucking amazing,” he said when he paused for breath, his thumb still stroking up and down your opening. “Will you come for me?”  
You moaned as he began to devour you, not waiting for an answer. The thumbs he'd been using to hold you open and rub back and forth now penetrated you until you couldn't help but roll your hips against him, his tongue flat and pressing hard on your clit as he dragged it forward in back or around in slow circles. Just when you were ready to beg him to lick faster he held you still and sucked your clit gently at first between his lips and then hard into his mouth, working it so perfectly you barely had a chance to cry out before you were overcome with an intense orgasm, fisting his hair as your body was overtaken with jerking convulsions and your essence gushed onto his face.

“Oh my god,” you slurred as he licked a path back up to your mouth, kissing you deeply so you tasted your creamy juices on his tongue.   
His kiss was, as always, tender yet passionate, as though he poured everything he felt into you in one breathless stream. Ivar always kissed you with such intensity, when he couldn't put his feelings into words – even when he didn't want to give them away – his lips always imparted the truth immediately upon touching yours. The warmth you felt from him now made a lump in your throat, the slow thrusts of his tongue pouring his love into you while his heavy breath gave an urgency to his arousal.

With Ivar sometimes in pain for days after you made love you'd been limited in both your activities and their frequency, mostly sticking with what you'd done on the first occasion simply because it worked so well and left you both satisfied. You only had a few moments while Ivar nibbled behind your ear to wonder if he'd been researching the techniques he'd just demonstrated or made them up on the spot, before he was rolling on top of you, pressing his hips between your parted thighs and working his pelvis against your mound. As your hands grazed down his sides the head of his erection parted your folds, hard and ready. So far your experience had been that maintaining a full erection was difficult and even with chemical intervention it could potentially be hit and miss – you were hesitant to go down that route because you honestly didn't find Ivar inadequate in any sense, and you didn't want him to believe that he was, either – but this felt different. Perhaps it was related to the previously untested missionary position, or the lingerie that now decorated the floor, but neither of you were about to waste it.

Ivar's thrusts were deep and precise, the effort of such control and the action of his hips evident in the sweat beading on his cheeks and the almost vicious baring of teeth, but his blue eyes flared with something different – hunger for you, the desire to fuck you to orgasm and leave you as utterly spent as him, and pride. Occasionally as he pulled back he would glance down to your joining bodies, admire not only the way your petalled folds took his cock so snugly and coated it with creamy nectar, but also the hardness of his erection that showed no sign of softening. Then he would smile and a heat would colour his cheeks, your fingers combing the hair back from his face as he resumed his focus and pushed deep inside to draw more moans from you.

Nearing his end, he buried his face in your neck, his breath coming in heavy gasps as he tried and failed to keep the same rhythm and instead gave in to sharp, shallow thrusts as he groaned and growled against your skin.  
“Oh, fuck... fuck... ah... gods...”   
His teeth gnashed against the curve of your shoulder, making you grip tight to his back and draw deep crescents with your fingernails. And then you felt something else new, the usual fluttering of his cock was accompanied by a gentle but definite flow of his seed into your womb that seemed to flood your entire body with blissful warmth. Your fingertips drew slow strokes up and down his spine, pausing to scratch lightly at the back of his neck as you basked in sleepy, sated afterglow, not wanting to move even for him to withdraw.

Ivar was instead starting to panic, the foreign ejaculation raising all sorts of awkward and embarrassing scenarios in his mind. For most men the primary concern would be pregnancy, but even if you weren't already on birth control that wasn't a problem for his misconfigured reproductive channels. No, Ivar was far more worried about the potential other fluids he may have released and how you would react. When he raised his head to kiss you the somewhat dopey smile on your lips melted his heart, so he simply returned your grin and covered your mouth with his.

“What's wrong?” you asked when you'd both used the bathroom, smoothing a finger down the centre of his face until his frown dissipated.   
Ivar responded only with a shake of his head, returning the gesture by stroking your cheek and smiling coyly. For a man of his intelligence and importance you found it endearing that the way he would sometimes look so boyish where he was a cocky and confident man seconds before.   
“You came,” you said quietly, watching his eyes dart downward when you grinned.  
“I might have.”  
You giggled. “Ivar, there's no might or maybe. You most certainly came inside me. Trust me.”  
“You know that's supposed to be all but impossible, we talked about what happens. So there is a maybe, it might actually have been... you know.”  
“And you know how my anatomy works – what goes in must come out and all that jazz – so let me absolutely assure you that you didn't piss in me. We can talk about this stuff, love. If you're worried about something like that just say so.”  
“I don't know what I did to deserve you, Socks. I'm sure most couples don't have to discuss their toileting habits.”  
“No, probably not.” You thought for a moment and then broke into uncontrollable laughter, the kind that makes you snort and tears well in your eyes.  
“What the fuck is so funny?!”  
“I just... you know there are people... it's a fetish.”  
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, golden showers, I know. You're a fucking comedian,” he said dryly.  
“No, actually being pissed _in_. Not my cup of tea, but each to their own I suppose.”  
He reached over for his phone, shaking his head while he unlocked it. “Give me a sec.”  
“What are you doing?”  
“Updating my Tinder profile. Maybe there's a woman out there...” he trailed off, waiting a few seconds to look at you with the most maniacal expression you'd ever seen.  
You walloped his face with a pillow, and then it was on: the wrestling match where you used every available weapon – pillows, mostly – to prevent being tickled to death and somehow ended up in fits of side-gripping laughter on the floor.  
“Shit,” Ivar said, leaning over the edge just a moment after you landed with a loud thud. “Are you okay?”  
You couldn't reply for laughing so eventually he joined in, his naked body draped over the edge of the bed as those blue eyes smiled down at you.

“Move in with me.” His head and arms were still all that you could see as he lay on his stomach and draped his shoulders over the edge, curtains of thick hair framing his hopeful blue eyes and boyish smile.

  
It wasn't a question, and you didn't need time to think of an answer. You loved him with all you had, and the idea of coming home to him every day made your chest fill with warmth. Without hesitation you simply said, “Okay,” and that was that. Fortunately you had a friend looking for an apartment and she was happy to sublet, saving you from breaking your lease or selling your furniture. In less than two weeks your personal belongings had all been moved into the house you now shared with Ivar, and for a time the commitment was enough to quell his fears about you spending so much time with James.

Getting the balance right between work and home seemed a more manageable task once you'd moved in. Going to bed with Ivar every night and waking up with him every morning was pure bliss, and you hoped the novelty would never fade. As the seasons changed and you approached your first Christmas together you still savoured the last few minutes of the day, when he'd hold you in his arms and without fail kiss you soundly on the lips, and then he'd whisper in your ear:  
“Sweet dreams, my beautiful odd-socked girl. I love you to infinity and back.”  
The first time you'd tried to correct his statement but he insisted, and so it stuck.   
“I love you too, my one and only,” you'd reply with a sleepy smile.

Loving Ivar was easy. 'As easy as falling off a bike,' you said. Truthfully you had no control over it either way, you just loved him more every day no matter what. Living with Ivar was not always so straightforward, though it also bore similarities to falling off a bicycle. Whether the chronic pain was responsible for his moods or just exacerbated them it was difficult to say, but the deepest of his lows was inevitably predicated by rising or intolerable pain. Some days that meant a dangerously short fuse, a lightning-quick temper that would give rise to violent rage at any minor incident. You were never threatened, and learned in short order that he could be soothed by your soft voice and gentle touch, but leaving the house at those times was all but impossible and your nerves quickly frayed from constant worry of upsetting him. At other times he would become depressed for a day or two, become teary and beg you to stay at home with him instead of going to work, and although you tried to always do what he asked there were times it wasn't possible, which lead you into heated arguments.

Just as loving him was easy, though, you never doubted his love for you. He no longer danced around awkward topics, and he trusted you with his most intimate and embarrassing issues. You were absolutely certain he would do anything you asked of him, anything to show his love for you, anything within his power to make you happy. If he was angry, the trigger was always someone or something else, and although you hoped to one day have the same intimacy without his outbursts you were comforted by his apologies, his promises to do better. You were always on alert and wary of his behaviour, worried that you'd end up in another abusive environment, but it just never felt that way. Whether that was reality or denial you couldn't be sure, you had to have faith in your own judgment.

“Do you have a passport?” he asked one morning out of the blue.   
You frowned at the wind blustering outside the window, slamming heavy raindrops against the glass like icy daggers. Even with the heating inside you shivered, the walk to the station would be horribly unpleasant today. “Yes. Why?”  
“I was thinking we could take a few days away right after Christmas.”  
“In Denmark?” you asked hopefully.  
“Gods, no. I was hoping for somewhere we could make some fond memories.”  
“I thought you'd be spending Christmas with your family, that's all.” Truthfully you were concerned that after six months he'd never mentioned introducing you, and for a moment you thought his plan was to take you there to meet them.  
“No. There's nothing there for me except my past. My future is here, _Snuskebasse_. With you.”

A few minutes of silence passed while you considered your own Christmas traditions and whether you could skip out on them for once. As an only child of divorced parents the day itself was little more than a precisely-timed appointment schedule, visiting the new families of your mum and dad, and despite their insistence upon equal time you could never recall feeling a true part of either gathering. You were like a trophy they sat on the mantle, there only to satisfy their spite and prove that you weren't with the other.

“Why don't we go away for Christmas, then?”  
And so you began your own tradition – spending Christmas together, alone, in a beautiful city neither of you had visited before. Your first stop was Prague, a surprise Ivar kept until you checked in at the airport, a fairytale city with a blanket of snow making everything shimmer beneath twinkling Christmas lights, the sound of carols wafting from the street outside your temporary home. You bought gifts for each other at the Christmas markets, sipped mulled wine as you watched the city darken and wind down on Christmas eve, and made love in front of the fire while an orchestra serenaded you with carols from the stereo.  
Every time you went out you marvelled at the way Ivar’s brain worked, the ease and enjoyment with which he assimilated new languages. On the plane he’d learned a few basic phrases in Czech, and although your unaccustomed ears couldn’t really tell the difference between that and his Danish words you could see the impression he made on stall holders at the markets when he tried not to resort to English.

  
“How do you do that, just pick up a new language so quickly?” you asked him as you lay in bed that night, your fingertips drawing patterns on his bare chest.   
“I listen and watch, it’s all about observation and then seeing the pattern in the big picture. As a child I learned to just fade into the background and learn by studying other people, the language of their words and their bodies. After a bit the pattern falls together like a big puzzle, and then it’s just practise.”  
“I love listening to you, you’re so quiet most of the time.”  
“That’s because I’m taking it all in, Socks,” he kissed your forehead, and proceeded to tell you the story of _Den Lille Pige med Svovlstikkerne_ (The Little Match Girl) in Danish, the slow decrescendo of his deep voice lowering you gently into sleep.

On Christmas morning you opened gifts in bed, watching fresh snow fall outside while you cuddled together beneath the covers before breakfast.   
“I love you, Ivar,” you said, resting your head on his strong shoulder. “This is truly the best Christmas I've ever had.”

  
For weeks after you were back home, things were different. The atmosphere was more calm and around the end of January you realised he'd barely been cranky all month. Even a few days into January when he was in so much pain he spent two days confined to his bed he was less moody and you were able to keep his spirits up.

It would take you another year to fully comprehend the reason, and almost a further year was wasted while you dug in your heels and refused to budge. As it turned out, you were both far from perfect.

 


	6. Part Six

You checked your watch, forcing down a mouthful of coffee you realised too late was stone cold, almost thirty minutes past when you promised to be home and you were nowhere near finished. The offices surrounding yours were dark, their occupants long gone to the warmth of their homes, and light snow had begun to gather on the external window.   
“What do you think?” James asked, bringing you back to the proposal in front of you.  
“I'm not sure about the glass panelling in the façade, for the cost and weight I think there are better options.”  
“I disagree, there's no other way to achieve the look they want.”  
“Okay, then I like it. It's ready to go.”

As your phone pinged with a new message from Ivar you rubbed your eyes.   
_[How much longer?]  
_ “What's going on? You gave in way too easily,” James said, standing and letting his chair roll back.   
“I'm tired,” you said while tapping out a reply. “And you're right, they're looking for something unique and it fits into the budget.”  
Another message appeared from Ivar. _[See you in the morning then. Don't bother waking me.]_  
“Why don't you go home, I can finish off the rest.”  
“Nah, then you'll take all the credit,” you joked. “It's fine, this is my project, too.”  
He released the stretch he was performing on his shoulders and strode across to lean on your desk. “I worry about you. About Ivar. I know he has a terrible temper.”  
You smiled as though it was the first time he'd brought it up. “James, I appreciate your concern but I promise everything is fine. He does get a little frustrated and angry, he's jealous that I spend more hours a day with you than him some days, but it's not what you think.”  
“You're sure? Because you can tell me if you need help, or you just want to talk.”  
“I am sure, and I do truly appreciate it.”

When you opened the door it was completely dark inside, even the light Ivar always left on in the kitchen was off and you shook your head at his spitefulness. How could the same man who last week had a rose delivered to you every hour for Valentine's Day, who surprised you that evening with a wall full of candid photographs and explained in tear-inducing detail exactly what each one meant to him, and lined the bedroom walls with more candles than you could count, turn so quickly? He was capable of such love and kindness, but the extremes were almost too much.

You changed quietly and slipped beneath the covers beside Ivar, desperate for his warmth but wary of disturbing him and frankly a little angry at his reaction to something beyond your control. As you got comfortable he rolled from his back to face away from you and with a sigh you did the same, barely dozing off in the intervening hours until sunrise.

Ivar wasn't good at apologising. The anger was always there, always simmering away inside him until he had need of it. He fed it, cultivated it like an essential crop, because it was all he had. His brothers, their imposing physical presence commanded awe and respect from when they were young, but Ivar had to use other means. Determination only brought him so much success, and his quick wit and intellect were slow to make an impression, but a snarl and preceding reputation for uncontrolled rage and ruthless temper brought fear to pitying eyes. To apologise for his greatest strength felt too much like surrender, and so even if he were genuinely sorry for causing offence or pain he couldn't bring himself to renounce his most powerful attribute.

Your red-rimmed eyes were too much for him the next morning, he hated how tired you became after so many long nights at the office.  
“This job, it's killing you. It's not fair on you.”  
“I knew there would be long hours, Ivar. The considerable sum of money they pay me makes it fair.” You drew a long, slow breath, as you would before poking a hornet's nest with a short stick. “I don't think it's fair that you punish me for something out of my control, though. It wasn't enough that I worked well after midnight, when I came home what I needed was sleep, to be held by my boyfriend. Instead you turned the other way, and that upset me. I hardly slept.”  
“What I wanted last night was a nice dinner with you, to have you in my arms when I fell asleep, but I didn't get that, either.”  
“That wasn't my choice, love. I wanted that too, but it was out of my hands. I am sorry that I had to work late, I know you must have been disappointed and frustrated that it happened again.”  
“Of course I was.”  
“That doesn't give you the right to punish me. It's going to happen again and you can't continue to react this way. You're choosing to make it more difficult when I really need your love and support.”  
He looked genuinely taken aback, stuck in thought over your words. “So you're telling me I have to put up with you being home late on a regular basis and I'm not allowed to be angry with you? Just deal with it, not only that but support and encourage it?”  
“Well, yes?”  
“But... but it's not fair. That's not fair on me. What do I get for being so accommodating and pushing my own feelings about the situation aside?”  
You looked at him incredulously. “You get me, Ivar.”  
“But I already have you.”  
“And you're upsetting me on a regular basis. You're frustrated by the lack of time I have for you but then when I do you waste it being angry.”  
“Because you upset me.”  
“So it's a tit for tat thing?”  
“Why shouldn't it be? What, I just have to wear it and pretend it doesn't bother me?”  
“Yes! Do you feel better when I'm being hurt by your words and your turning away when I need you? Do you get some satisfaction from being angry with me?”  
“Eventually you will come to see that this isn't working for us.”  
“So I have to be the one to yield?”  
“It's your job that is the problem.”  
“No, Ivar. It isn't. I don't know how to make you see that.” You set down the glass of water you'd been drinking and moved calmly toward the hall. It didn't even register at this point that every move you made was calculated so as not to upset him further, your voice kept low and cool in an effort not to provoke him more than necessary.  
“How many fucking times do I have to ask you not to walk away when I'm talking to you!”  
You stopped and cringed, not because of the harshness in his voice but because he had a point – apparently people in Ivar's life had done that since he was small, ending the conversation by walking away because he couldn't follow – and you frequently forgot how much it hurt him.  
“I'm sorry.” You turned and walked back the few steps to stand so close your bodies almost touched, taking his hand from his side and pressing a kiss to his lips. “I need a shower and to get dressed for work, okay?”  
“Okay.” He sighed and looked down at your clasped hands. “I love you so fucking much, Y/N.”  
“I love you, too. Can you just think about what I said?”  
He nodded and released you, turning back to his breakfast bowl.

Ivar did consider what you said, he thought a lot about it over the coming days and resolved not to take it out on you when he was angry about your work – even if he was doing it as a favour more than actually believing he was wrong to blame you. Another few weeks passed without an outburst, and he seemed happier as long as you made a big fuss over his patience when you did have work commitments that couldn't be put off. They also became fewer as the projects you were assigned reached their middle phases, and as weeks stretched into months your life felt positively settled.

As your first anniversary approached you began to reflect on your year together, admiring the photographs that now covered an entire wall in varying sizes and shades. Standing in front of them on a Sunday morning you fastened one button of Ivar's business shirt just below your breasts and sipped at your coffee. There were so many memories, from your first dates to lying in bed together post-sex, to pictures of you still asleep on your pillow or cooking at the stove, even one of you barely clothed and searching for a midnight snack by the light of the refrigerator. Ivar always said he couldn't take a bad photo of you but you'd seen the outtakes from some of them, and although Ivar would print and frame every single one if he had the space you didn't entirely agree with his appraisal. There were some pictures scattered around where Ivar was the subject, too – where you'd caught those dreamy blue eyes gazing off into nothing and a subtle frown furrowing his brows, or his mouth wide open and eyes crinkled shut in mid-laugh, looking straight down the lens with his cheeks flushed and eyes dark. What no one else would ever know about that picture was that it was taken during sex, when you'd looked down and been taken by how beautiful he was, reaching across for the camera to capture the moment before you continued, much to Ivar's frustration.

You heard his bare feet padding on the hard floor behind you and smiled to yourself – a morning where he could get around without a crutch always meant a good day. He wrapped his strong arms around you from behind, nuzzling the side of your neck.   
“Nice shirt, _Snuskebasse_.” His voice was gravelly with sleep, his lips warm on your skin. “Happy anniversary.”  
You hummed and sipped your coffee. “There are some beautiful memories here, love.”  
Ivar moved around to face you. “I know it's been a rough ride at times, I'm under no delusion that I'm easy to live with. I'm trying harder because of you, though. For you.”  
“I can tell, and it means the world to me. I'm no picnic, either, I know that.”  
Ivar took you in his arms and rested his head on top of yours. “I wonder what the next year will bring.”

You were both silent for a long time, admiring the pictures and content in a tight embrace.  
“Do you ever think about children? Is that something you want?” he asked quietly.  
“I guess so, some time in the future. Do you?”  
“I do with you. I sometimes imagine your belly growing round with my baby inside, having a little extra life in this quiet house. It's not impossible for me, but it is a great deal more complicated and less fun than the traditional method.”  
You were stunned into silence for a few seconds that felt like hours to Ivar, he was relieved when you finally found words.   
“I had no idea, I never brought it up because I suspected you just couldn't, or at least that it would be difficult.”  
The idea of his baby in your womb sparked a warmth that flooded over you, from your core all the way out to the extremities of your fingertips and toes.   
“Maybe not right away, but once we're settled and you're happy to take a break from your career... I'd like to. We could get married, have a couple of children as beautiful as their mother.”  
“Or their father.”  
“There is a chance I could pass this on, though. It's genetic.”  
“We can cross that bridge when we come to it.” You were too busy dreaming about marrying him and having his children to discuss the risks right now. It was both a sobering and exciting prospect.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ivar pulls one of his favourite pictures from the box, the one from your first anniversary celebrated by the river. He remembers that morning so well, the explosion of emotion he felt at finding you admiring the photographs wearing nothing but his button-down shirt, then the rest of that perfect day. You'd taken a picnic late in the afternoon, sat between his legs on the blanket and shared a bottle of champagne as the sun began to sink. That was the day he knew you were the only one for him, that he'd never be so happy or so in love with another woman.

Now it looks more like he'll never be so happy again. He doesn't give himself time to dwell on that thought, he has an appointment to keep.

“What brought you here, Ivar?”  
He drags his eyes from the window to the woman sitting across from him, hands folded neatly in her lap as she regards him with a neutral expression.  
“I told you. Anger.”  
“There must have been a catalyst, though. Some event that made you realise your behaviour needed to change.”  
“I don't want to feel angry all the time, that's all.” Ivar gazed back to the dreary day outside. “No big tragedy.”  
Neither speaks for more than a minute.  
“We aren't going to get anywhere if you're not honest with me.”  
“Fine.” He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “There was a woman, a relationship. It ended months ago and I've accepted that it's over. I guess I want to know it won't happen again.”  
She nods so knowingly it sets Ivar's teeth on edge.  
“What happened?”  
“I'm not here to get her back. I hurt her too badly for that, I don't want to talk about it. Just fix me so it won't happen again.”  
“Ivar,” she says gently. “I can't help you if you don't tell me what happened. You're angry, I can see that might be the root of the problem, but I need to know exactly what made you come here now. Why now?”  
“Before me, she was with an abusive asshole. He was controlling and she said he was a mean drunk, he'd pick fights over trivial shit. I never met him, she never told me his name, but I despised him. I can't stand men who claim to love a woman and then treat her that way and I was furious when she told me about him, I promised to always take care of her and love her.” He sniffs and draws a deep breath. “And then somewhere along the way I turned in to that guy. I was angry with... with a guy she worked with I guess, because he spent so much time with her, but I took it all out on her. I pushed her to her limit and she walked away.”

An hour later, Ivar is exhausted. Although the effort has been mental his entire being is so tired he gets a cab rather than make the ten minute walk and then collapses on the couch for two hours. He'll see the psychologist again in a few days, and while she appeared polite and softly-spoken she somehow scraped every crevice of his mind in her search for his deepest memories, all of the times aggression had worked to his advantage, the foundation of his belief that fear of his temper was equal to respect. Now it feels as though the contents were scooped out, mixed around, and poured back inside his head.

He wakes from a restless sleep in the middle of the night, and still after all this time he reaches out for you. Groaning in pain as he turns over seeking your comfort and warmth he realises with a kick in his guts that the side of the bed is empty, even though your pillow still holds on to your scent. It's as though his house is clinging to every remnant of you – a hair pin stuck at the back of the bathroom drawer, your favourite tea in the cupboard, a flower pressed between the pages of a book – so that no matter how well he hides the photographs or how they might fade over time, he'll think of you.

Ivar only hopes that one day, while he's dressing for work and the simple act of putting on his socks makes him smile, the fond memory won't be chased off by rage.

 


	7. Part Seven

You press your hands flat on your desk and smile at the sun warming the large window on one side, refracting rainbows through the sleek glass trophy beside your computer screen – a token of appreciation from your last project, the same project that lead to your current position. You are now only one step away from full partner, and have been assigned the lead role on an important client's redevelopment, a job that could set up the rest of your career if it goes well. Either way you're in the best position you could hope for, the hard work and sacrifices of the last couple of years have paid off.   
James and the other junior partners have organised celebratory drinks for that evening and even though you know the attendance rate is mostly related to the company bar tab you're flattered all the same, you're proud and confident and it feels so damn good to have your efforts recognised. You're talking to some colleagues when it first happens – the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and a goosebump-inducing shiver rattles up your spine.  
“Someone just walked over my grave,” you joke as you sip at your drink and scan the tables behind you.   
The second time you're on your way to the bathroom, and you're so shaken up by the distant familiarity of the sensation that you take your time, splashing your face with cool water and re-touching your lipstick before you emerge. As you stride purposefully toward the bar you feel it again, smoothing a hand over the back of your neck while you wait for the bartender to take your order.   
And then you see him, and it all makes sense.   
Ivar sits at the bar on the other side, another man talking animatedly beside him. His deep blue eyes are fixed on you, a smile curling his lips when your gaze meets his. You return his smile, and the subtle wave of his hand, before taking your drink and looking for your friends. If he can have that effect from the other side of the room you're not keen to risk getting closer, but try as you might to distract yourself with conversation you can't stop your body's automatic reaction.   
The heady champagne buzz seems to wear off instantly, and the fresh glass you're gulping down only seems to intoxicate the swarm of butterflies holding a rave in your belly. Even when you glance back in his direction and his stool now sits empty you can feel the warmth of his hands on your skin, the rush of hot breath on the back of your neck as though at any moment his fingers will thread into yours. Suddenly the room is too small, the air too thick, the music and babble of conversation too loud. You excuse yourself into the chilly night and lean on the balcony rail, drawing deep breaths and exhaling clouds of condensation.   
“Beautiful evening, hm?”   
You startle and whip your head around like a teenager caught smoking behind the toilet block.  
“Ivar,” you whisper, before clearing your throat and hoping your next words are less meek. “How are you?”  
He smiles as he approaches. “I'm well. And you?”  
“Great, we're here to celebrate my promotion.”  
“Another one? That's fantastic, no doubt it was well-deserved.”  
You're half expecting a hint of malice in his words, the edge of spite his voice used to have when speaking of your work, but it isn't there, and for the first time since sighting him the thought occurs that he might be completely over you and only showing a passing interest out of politeness. You don't care to acknowledge how much that hurts.  
"Thank you."  
Silence forms like a bubble between you and expands to engulf you both inside, the noise and music fading until you can hear Ivar's breath and the shuffle of his feet. He wants to ask you so many questions, not the least of which are if you're seeing anyone and if you miss him, but the words catch in his throat and he's afraid of the answers. You raise your eyes eagerly to his when you hear his intake of breath as though he's about to speak, but he barely gets out "So," before he's interrupted.  
"Hey," James says from the open door. "You're about to miss your own toast. I know you hate speeches, but..." he trails off and looks from you to Ivar and back again, a frown of recognition knitting his brows.   
"I'll be right there," you reply with a forced smile.   
"Best not keep them waiting," Ivar says.  
"I... you're right." You turn and start walking toward the door where James has disappeared back into the crowd.   
"Socks?" Ivar calls after you, waiting for you to stop and face him again. "It was really good to see you."  
"You too, Ivar." You return his smile and feel your cheeks flush under his intense blue gaze, slowly turning away to step back inside to your colleagues.   
With your coat pulled tight around your chest your walk home is brisk, you're eager to get out of the cold and into the warmth of your apartment. The residual high of alcohol-filled celebration is yet to wear off, but you can't get the image of Ivar off your mind. He looked so relaxed and healthy, like some of the weight had been taken from his usually rigid shoulders.   
Was it you? For all of his claims that you were the love of his life, is it possible he's found himself happier without you?  
In the time you've been apart you assumed he was missing you at least as much as you're missing him, that he hadn't moved on and certainly wasn't better off. Now though, you see how arrogant that view is, that perhaps you really weren't meant to find your way back together like you'd hoped. That hope has been buried so well you barely recognise it even now it's right in front of your face, but it's been there all along. Deep down, you thought something would change -- you'd decide you could live with his anger as a better alternative to being without him entirely, or he'd somehow miraculously change his personality -- and the universe in its sometimes incomprehensible wisdom would lead you back into each other's lives.   
He didn't look like he missed you, did he?   
Approaching your building you see a silhouette leaning on the brick fence at the front and your heart skips a beat, he's in exactly the spot where you found Ivar all those months ago. A smile spreads across your face and you hasten your steps, keeping your eyes down and not looking up again until you're just a few feet away lest he be an illusion -- but when you're close enough to make out his features the jaw is a little too square, he's quite a bit taller than Ivar, and his chest is much too narrow.   
Nodding to your neighbour on the way past you chide yourself all the way to your door, how could you really expect he'd be waiting for you, and what on earth was with the rush of endorphins you felt at the prospect? Nothing has changed, your relationship wouldn't be improved by time apart alone. No matter how much you love him or how you missed him it isn't worth living with that sort of tension every day.   
An envelope you tossed onto the hall table that afternoon catches your eye, one you'd found hidden in the bottom of a drawer while moving to your new office. You shouldn't open it, it's best left untouched while you decide whether to destroy or keep the photographs that used to line the wall beside your desk, but the gravity of it is too strong. With a mind of their own your fingers delicately lift the flap and remove a single photo.  
  
The wind whipped your hair into your face and covered your skin in salty spray from the white peaks before you. As you fastened it back with a hair tie you turned to find Ivar holding up his phone.   
"Don't you dare!" you called, covering as much skin as you could with your hands and arms.   
"You'll pose for me naked but not in a bikini?" Ivar laughed.  
You squealed as the freezing water washed over your ankles and shins. "Yes. And I'm beginning to think this was a terrible idea."  
"It was your idea, Socks."  
"And it was a terrible one. It's too cold for swimming."  
"I did try to tell you."  
The longer you shivered the more he laughed, but you were determined and possibly a little too stubborn for your own good. You waded until the water was brushing the apex of your thighs and then dove beneath a wave, the chilly water burning your chest as you came up for air. You strode as casually as possible onto the shore, which is when Ivar snapped the picture you're staring at now.   
The trip was a last minute arrangement, the spring weather was unseasonably warm -- up until the day you left, at least -- so you took a weekend off and he surprised you with a break on the seaside. It turned grey and cool before you left the city but that didn't in any way dampen the weekend, you spent most of it inside your cabin with the fire keeping your naked bodies warm. After the constant arguments of everyday life it was like a blissful vacation from every stressor in your environment, he was so relaxed and affectionate, just like he was in the beginning of your relationship. You wished you could bottle that weekend and replay it during the hard times later, but one occasion couldn't have saved your entire relationship.  
Could it?  
  
Over the next few days you feel restless, like that niggling feeling you've forgotten an important date or left something behind, and it only increases as the days turn to weeks. You're busy enough to be occupied, but still feel like you have too much time on your hands, too much unfilled time to think.  
Ivar's phone number was deleted from your phone some time ago, once he'd stopped calling and begging you to come home, but in with the pictures from your office was the note he left that day at the gym, and it feels as though it's trying to burn a hole through the envelope and stick itself to your forehead, shouting at you to call him one last time and have your questions answered once and for all. Surely then the nagging at the back of your mind will stop.  
You enter his number and tap out message after message, carefully deleting each one as you do. That's supposed to be cathartic, right?  
[It was great to see you]  
[If you ever feel like coffee and a chat, you know where to find me]  
[I miss you]  
[I still love you, will that ever go away?]  
[Are you seeing anyone?]  
[Do you still love me? Have you moved on? Are you happier without me?]  
[Do you miss me?]  
The cursor blinks at the end, judging you with every flash for writing messages you'll never send to your ex because you're supposed to know better, you're worth more than the way he was treating you, you deserve to be loved without walking on eggshells every minute of the day...  
"Shut up," you say aloud as you hold your finger in the text field to select and delete the words... and realise too late you've just barely brushed your finger over the send icon.  
"No! No no no... Fuck."  
Immediately you shut down the phone and then prise off the back to remove the battery and sim card. Surely that would have interrupted the process? It takes more than a nanosecond for the signal to transmit to the tower and you've stopped it in the nick of time. You almost feel proud of your quick-thinking-disaster-aversion, and you stare at the pieces of your phone while planning your next move. Factory reset, it has to be. Wipe it completely so that it never gets the chance to pick up the lost message from wherever it ended up and send it out into the... air?   
A quick Google tells you the easiest way to restore the handset is by turning it on, and again you congratulate your own calmness as you leave the sim on the bench and reassemble the phone. Can't send a message without a sim card, right? Your proud little balloon quickly deflates when you see a reply pop up from Ivar:  
[Do you want to talk?]  
Didn't anyone ever tell him it's impolite to answer a question with a question?  
[Well this is embarrassing, that was not meant for you. Sorry! :)]  
Fuck.

  
Ivar smiles and shakes his head at the phone screen.   
"Should have left out the smiley, Socks. I might have believed you."  
His thumbs hover over the screen for a few seconds before he sets the phone down, deciding to let you off without further humiliation. He has no doubt you sent it by accident, but he's fairly certain it wasn't intended for anyone else, either. It isn't confirmation that you still return his feelings, but it's a start. The door might still be closed, hell it might still be locked, but perhaps it's no longer boarded up. Any ray of hope is enough for now. 


	8. Part Eight

"How did it feel, seeing her again?"  
Ivar scratches his jaw. "I expected if that happened I'd be overwhelmed with emotions, but it felt... good. When I congratulated her I meant it."  
"That's great."  
"I think she might be ready to hear what I have to say."  
"You're certainly ready to put it out there," the woman says with an almost proud smile. "You've come a long way, Ivar. I look forward to hearing all about it."

_~_ * _~_ * _~_ * _~_

You're on the way home in drizzling rain when the music in your ears is interrupted by a text. Even though you deleted the messages and his number after the accidental text incident, you recognise the pattern of digits and open it immediately.  
[Would you like to have coffee some time? Ivar]  
You don't hesitate before answering, he's been on your distracted mind far too much recently and it's time to clear the air and let it go.  
[I'd like that. How about this weekend?]

"We must be crazy," Ivar says as you lift the collar of your coat against the cold.  
The sun is peeking through a lattice of grey clouds, barely filtering between the overhead leafless branches to the almost deserted park. Every now and then a family passes, rugged up and cranky save for the small child with gumboots splashing in the remnants of this morning's showers.

His text came at the end of a long and challenging day -- something that had become the norm with your distracted mind -- and you accepted his invitation for coffee immediately, hoping for some degree of closure. "We could have stayed inside by the fire," you retort, hugging your takeaway mug with gloved hands.  
"I wanted somewhere we could talk. If you're cold, though..."  
"No, I'm fine."  
There are a few seconds of silence before he speaks again. "I want you to know how sorry I am for the way I treated you and the way things ended between us."  
"It's ok."  
"No, it isn't, Y/N. Please, let me finish. I've been seeing a psychologist and working through some issues, mostly stemming from me being angry with the world for as long as I can remember. I've accepted that I can't change my past and forgiven myself for hurting you, because I know better and in the future I'll do better," he chuckles and shakes his head, "that sounds like such a wanky thing to say, and I didn't feel I had any right to forgive myself, but I see things a little different now."

His blue eyes are sincere, a half-smile curling his lip. The tether between his shoulders and ears is released, as though his body has relaxed as he got comfortable with his own mind. You clear your throat while sifting through your own thoughts, trying to find the right words.  
"I'm really happy for you, that must feel good."  
"It's been a process." Ivar blinks hard, the memory of long sessions filled with tears and anger that made his chest ache and his throat raw still fresh in his mind. "I didn't just wake up one morning and be rid of all negative emotions, but it's worth the hard work. It's freeing."  
"For what it's worth, you look and sound like you're in a good place now."  
"I am, and to answer your question," he laughs, "yes, I miss you. I have no right to request it but I'd love if we could hang out sometimes like this, as friends?"  
"Of course we can." Your reply is calm but your heart and mind thunder ahead like racing horses. All you've thought about since his text is whether you would take him back, how it would feel to give him another chance, and he's not asking for one. You've cheated yourself by wanting it too badly, like the perfect pour of coffee with its golden crema and silky fluff of milk you can already taste, only you find they're only serving from the pot. "For the record, I forgive you too, and I'm really glad you got some help."

When your hot chocolate is empty and the air so frigid you expect your breath to freeze you agree to part ways. Ivar holds you close with his hands spread over your upper back and you're so absorbed by the familiar comfort of his arms that you don't notice his deep inhale as his head rests on top of yours, or the fleeting hesitation as he pecks your cheek. You might feel his hand linger a moment on top of yours as he waits for your eyes to meet his gaze, but the moment is lost when your phone trills its intrusion from your coat pocket.  
"Shit. Sorry." You tug one glove off with your teeth, silencing the ring not quite quickly enough to prevent Ivar seeing James' face on the screen.  
"Work?" he asks, his lips pressed together in a tight line.  
"Yeah. Give me one minute?"  
Ivar nods and you jab the answer button, keeping your eyes on his clenched jaw. "This better be important," you answer through gritted teeth.  
"Hot date?" James mocks with a laugh. "I just got an email from --"  
"James, this isn't a good time," you cut him off. "I'll call you later."  
As you're ending the call your stomach drops -- Ivar's shoulders are drawn up and his knuckles are white on his crutches.  
"I'm sorry, I..."  
"It's ok, I understand. You can't ignore work."

You fall into step together as you begin meandering out of the park, an easy silence settling between you. When you reach the street where you need to part ways you can't hold it in until next time, your heart needs a definitive answer.  
"Do you think we'll ever be more? Be the way we were?"  
"I don't know, Socks. I know the biggest problem was me, but it wasn't the only one we had, was it?"  
Tears burn the corners of your eyes and you turn to walk away, tossing your farewell over your shoulder. "I guess not. I have to go, we'll talk soon?"  
"Hey --"  
"No, it's ok. I really have to go."

As soon as Ivar was behind you the tears flowed unhindered and you trudged home in freezing feather-light rain. He had a point, there were unresolved issues between you that weren't his fault, but you shouldn't have to sacrifice a hard-earned career for him. Even if that were a choice you couldn't just decide to work less now you were so close to full partner, but could you push away your love for Ivar when you were so close to having him back you could taste his lips? After a hot bath you read through your personal emails, one from a headhunter catching your attention -- they left a voicemail and emailed a few times this month but until now you ignored the idea, but now...

For all the tension your work and James caused in your relationship, neither was really the core of the problem. Nothing gave Ivar the right to behave the way he did but it was true that work always took first priority and because James was so closely involved he became a convenient target. Perhaps a fresh start is worth considering, taking away the continued exposure to James as a sign that you're prepared to make an effort. Your reply is answered the following morning, an interview set up later in the week. The job is less competitive with predictable hours, and try as you might you can't stop the daydream of coming home to dinner with Ivar every evening.

"Why?" they ask. Why the change from a renowned firm to an in-house position in hospitality? Why now? Why you? And you answer honestly while selling yourself as best you can, because you've never been more certain. You have to try.

It's late in the afternoon when they call to offer you the position, and your bag is slung over your shoulder before you hang up.  
"Where are you going?" James asks.  
"I have to leave early, we'll finish this up tomorrow."  
"Since when do you leave early?"  
"Priorities, James," you call as the door closes.  
There's just one person you want to share the good news with.

Ivar's reaction leaves a little to be desired.  
"I don't understand. It's not a promotion?"  
"No, it's just a different position. A sideways move, I suppose."  
"More money?"  
"Actually, a tiny bit less. Regular hours, though. No more working through the night because the client wants a last minute change or an unreasonable deadline. I thought you'd be happy for me?"  
"I am, truly." He squeezes your shoulders. "As long as this is what you want." His lack of enthusiasm kicks you in the guts and you pace a short path around the living area you used to share. It's different -- stark and cold -- and you realise the photographs are all missing from the walls. Ivar is eyeing you, confused as ever, and you're forced to admit you made the change for him. In your mind the last thing keeping you apart was dedication to your job and if you took that away he'd immediately beg you to come home.

In your second year of school you were the timid little girl who was too afraid of the teacher to raise your hand, and instead wet your pants while trying to hold it. Now as Ivar questions your motives you're that meek child again, without an answer. You ran away that day, made it all the way home where you were spanked and promptly walked back through the school gate in clean clothes, and for the next two years you didn't drink during school hours in fear of another accident. It's an instinct that remains, your gut now screaming at you to get out, run away and never expose yourself to such risk again.

You once shared such intimacy with Ivar and yet it's too painful to admit this misjudgment, too raw to confess your enduring love and the lengths you're prepared to go to just for another chance. So with a half-hearted mumble of an excuse you're out in the cold misty afternoon, walking from the station to your apartment. It's impossible to say whether the moisture becomes so thick in the air it forms droplets, or the heavens have actually opened and buckets of water are being dumped to earth, but in the short journey you're quickly soaked through and shivering, your umbrella left behind in your haste to escape. As you trot the last block it becomes impossible to look anywhere but at your feet without your eyes being filled with water, so when you first see the shape standing at your fence you assume it's your neighbour lurking there again or a mirage with an umbrella waiting to rescue you.

"If you keep running away like this I'll have to assume you don't want to see me any more," Ivar says with a smile, cocking his head to one side and leaning toward you. He holds the umbrella out to cover you both and drips fall from your coat onto his shoes. "What's going on, Socks?"


	9. Chapter 9

You heard your stepmother's soft footsteps crunch on the frostbitten remains of their back lawn, her blonde hair wild and curly around her face in the freezing wind, and when she sat down on the swing beside you somehow the air felt a fraction warmer.   
"How is school?" she asked, nudging her swing back and forth.   
You shrugged. "It's good."  
"What's this?" She pointed to an arrangement of sticks, twigs, and leaves on the ground where you'd been experimenting with ways to hold them together.  
"It was a house, but the wind was too strong. Now it's a flat house."  
She giggled. "They say we'll all be living in flats one day, you might be on to something there, kiddo."  
Finally you looked up at her and broke into laughter. "Not that kind of flat, Malinda."  
"Cuddle in a cup?" she offered, holding out her hand.  
No one made hot chocolate like Malinda. She'd shake her head at the mis-matched socks on your feet, but she understood without ever being told: in the push and shove of your life where you were told what to wear and how to behave, having no say in which house you visited or when, it was your way of taking back control.   
  
When she first came into your life you'd only known her as 'the bitch'. That's what your mum called her, but even at seven years old you could form your own opinions. Malinda always had the time for you, even once she had her own babies, and if ever you aspired to be a particular kind of mother it was her gentle touch you envisioned. While your mother became more petty and bitter as the years passed and your father essentially decided you weren't worth the fight -- their only joy seemed to be winning you like some sort of trophy -- Malinda's beaming smile never changed. The last time you saw her was years ago now, when you found out through Facebook that the cancer she'd fought for years was terminal.   
"You were always so good to me," you said as you hugged her frail body. "And I always wondered why. You were never under any obligation to treat me so kindly."  
The smile still didn't falter.   
"One day you'll know, kiddo." Anyone else you'd have been concerned, calling you 'kiddo' when you'd almost finished university, but not Malinda. "Love first. Always, no matter the sacrifice."  
  
At the time you thought you understood, thought she simply meant to always be kind until you had reason not to be, but now you see the depth of such a simple statement, still echoing in your mind all these years later.  
  
Ivar turns as you emerge from your bedroom, bundled up in an oversized hoodie and your warmest sweatpants. The scattered towers of boxes haven't escaped his notice, and he wonders if you're planning on moving away. He didn't get a chance to ask about the location of your new job, he assumed it was nearby. Is that what you were trying to tell him? Panic grips his chest and he leans on the kitchen bench for support -- he's just been struck by how beautiful you are with your hair still dripping from the ends and mascara beneath your eyes, all snug and warm after he found you soaked and frozen -- he can't lose you now.   
"Hot chocolate?" he offers, holding a mug out to you. "Three marshmallows and extra chocolate sprinkles."  
You smile and take it from him, wrapping your cold hands around it.  
"Like a cuddle in a cup," he says softly.  
"What did you say?"  
"I think I heard that from you. Please talk to me, Socks."  
You sit on the couch and hug your cup like your life depends on it, the warm liquid in your belly soothing your nerves. Once you begin, it just kind of spills out.  
"I love you, Ivar. I am still in love with you. I took the new job because it would mean no more late nights, no more middle of the night phone calls, no more spur of the moment dinners to impress clients."  
"I wouldn't ask you to do that."  
"I know, that's the point. I didn't have to. But I wanted to give us the best possible chance to properly start over, without you always tensing up at the mere mention of James. It doesn't matter that nothing ever happened between us, that we were just colleagues. You were right, I did put my career first. Not any more. If you think we can give it another go, it won't happen again. Love first."  
Ivar is silent, rubbing his hands together thoughtfully with an unreadable expression. Waiting for some sort of reaction is almost worse than the torture of rejection.   
"I love you too, Socks," he says finally, scooping his hair back to look you in the eye. "But I loved you before, and it wasn't enough."  
"Forget about before, it doesn't matter. You've forgiven, I've forgiven. Fresh start."  
He pushes himself up, leans on the window a few feet away staring at the rain with his knuckles white on the ledge. "How can I forget? You really think I could do that to you and just..." His voice is monotone with restraint, quiet like the hiss of steam escaping a tiny crack between a boiling pot and its lid.  
You stand and approach him, placing a gentle hand on his upper back. He remembers you being afraid of him, you wouldn't have done that before, you'd leave him alone for fear he'd explode.   
"Every time I touched you I'd remember."  
"I'm not afraid of you, Ivar. We'll make a hundred new beautiful memories for every bad one. I told myself I was done, that I'd move forward with my life, but I missed you every single day. Almost everything I own is still packed up in boxes because it was too painful to unpack. I was holding on to the hope of moving them again. Putting them back where they belong. With you."  
He turns to face you and you let your fingers drag around to his collarbone as he leans toward you, leaving just a centimetre between your lips and his. "What if it's a mistake? What if I hurt you again?"  
"I trust you."  
You close the gap, your lips brushing lightly over his as they part. And then his fingers thread into your hair and he claims your mouth, hungry and possessive, stealing the breath from your lungs as you melt into his body and he braces against the wall.   
  
When you pull away you're met with a pair of smiling blue eyes.  
"I never expected another chance," he says, stroking your bottom lip with his thumb. "We should take this slow, yeah?"    
You nod and rest your head on his chest, the rain on the window like a staccato riff over the steady beat of his heart, and let the tears fall down your cheeks. It's dark outside before you raise your head and see the dried tracks down Ivar's cheeks too, and you kiss each side gently before he grimaces.  
"I need to sit down for a bit," he says as he lowers himself gingerly to the couch.  
"Can you stay for dinner?"  
"Of course. If you come here and kiss me some more, first. Gods, I missed you."  
You smile and sit beside him, and he easily drags your legs over his lap before your lips meet. Your tongues are slowly reacquainted, hands exploring each other as though navigating a familiar road after a long holiday. Thunder rumbles in the distance as he lifts you on top, his fingertips moving tentatively beneath your hoodie and up your back, questioning. In response you bite your lip and peel it over your head, tossing it behind the couch and doing the same with Ivar's shirt, and feast your eyes on familiar contours of smooth skin over muscle. Through his jeans you feel his erection press against you as you roll your hips over him while he kneads your breasts and kisses your neck.  
  
Ivar's actions slow to a stop and he reaches up to kiss your lips.  
"Go wait for me in the bedroom?" he asks, shifting subtly beneath you.   
You nod and point him in the direction of the bathroom, slipping out of your sweatpants to wait naked beneath the covers for him. A faint flash of lightning illuminates him as he appears in your doorway, sitting to discard his pants before wrapping you in his arms. You both take your time kissing and exploring the other's body, until he pins you down and his gaze burns deep into your eyes.   
"Snuskebasse," he whispers, pushing forward so his cock presses against your lips. "I need to be inside you."  
You reach down and grip his hips and he groans as you widen your legs, letting his length fill you with one smooth motion, forcing a moan from deep in your throat. As he rocks back and forth you arch your back to allow him deeper and he guides your hand to your clit. The storm grows louder, lightning casting flickering shadows of your undulating bodies onto the wall and the thunder cracking beneath Ivar's heavy gasps in your ear. You cry out as you reach your peak, the climax breaking over you until your legs shake with every thrust, and with his face buried in your neck Ivar shudders and stills, his cock pulsating inside your walls.   
  
You comb your fingers through his long silken hair while a deafening crack of thunder rattles the windows.   
"My people would think we'd angered the gods," he says, kissing the corner of your mouth.   
"I rather think they're applauding."  
He laughs as he rolls off and stands, steadying himself with one crutch. You can't help but giggle, as you always did, at the sight of him naked with his crutches. Childish as it is, Ivar can't help but smile.  
"It feels like centuries since I heard that laugh. I'd forgotten how beautiful it is." He pauses in the doorway. "Does this mean you're moving back in with me?"  
"I thought you wanted to take it slow?"  
"Fuck that, I don't want to waste a second. I just thought it was what you wanted."  
"Then yes, I suppose I'm moving back in."  
Dinner is forgotten when he returns to find you snoozing with a smile on your lips and he can't resist climbing back into bed with you.   
  
The storms continue their rumbling through the night but you wake in the morning to a clear blue sky and Ivar's steady breath beneath your ear. With a contented sigh you press your lips to his chest, tasting a hint of salt on his skin as he pulls you closer and strokes your back.   
"What's on today, Min Snuskebasse?" he asks in his rough morning voice.  
"A fresh start," you tell him. "Today is the beginning."  
"Beginning of what?"  
"Everything."


	10. Part Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter, Epilogue to follow very soon!

You knew better than to expect a smooth and easy road with Ivar. A lifetime of every reflexive behaviour borne of anger was never going to be cured in a short amount of time, if ever. He tried so hard, though. Especially with you, he couldn't lose you again. The following year was when you first began to notice his pain increasing, the frequency with which he had to use two crutches just to get around the house, little hints like preferring to drive short distances. You told yourself it was the weather -- which was far colder than normal for late November -- and that he always worsened with the change of season.   
"Let's go somewhere warm this year," you suggested, opening the discussion on your regular Christmas trip. "Proper warm, like southern hemisphere where it's summer. A nice little island."   
"Do they celebrate Christmas on this nice little island?" he asked.   
"Who cares? Neither of us are Christian."   
"Maybe I just want to give you a gift."   
"Since when do you need an excuse?"   
Ivar laughed. "That's true. All right, which particular island?"

The setting sun caresses your skin with its golden warmth, marking the end of a Christmas spent swimming and lazing in your private piece of paradise.   
"Would anyone mind if we didn't go home?" you ask.   
Ivar rumbles something sleepily from beside you, his fingertips stroking your exposed shoulder. In the few days since you arrived his discomfort has definitely decreased, easing your concerns about something serious.   
"That's settled, then. We're living here."   
His body shakes with a chuckle and he pulls you closer against him. "Hungry?"   
"For food or something else?"   
"Food, naughty girl. But we can always have dessert after."

You pull on a kaftan to cover your swimsuit before one of the resort staff arrives with a platter of seafood, which you eat on the deck listening to the gentle lap of waves beneath your villa.   
"What do you think about getting married?" Ivar asks, making you choke on your wine.   
"Uh... as an institution? Or was that a proposal?"   
"It was my way of opening the topic for discussion." He smiles smugly. "So? What do you say?"   
"I'd certainly be open to the idea."   
"Good. Me too."   
All is quiet for almost a full minute before you crack. "Does that... are we... getting married?" You try not to bubble with excitement but as the idea sinks in you find it difficult not to leap into his lap.   
"Sure. Do you want to do it while we're here? We could get married on the beach."   
"Wouldn't we need to... I don't know... Get a license or something?"   
"Apparently not, as long as we have the paperwork with us. We'd still have to sign something when we get home, but the ceremony could happen here, if that's what you want."   
"Well, I..." A million things are flashing through your mind -- dresses and cakes, bridesmaids, someone to give you away. But then all you see is you and Ivar, barefoot in the sand, promising to love each other. "Okay. Yes. Let's do it."

You're expecting some sort of complication, perhaps because you were born in different countries or you hadn't given enough notice before leaving home, but everything goes so easily that by sunset the following day you have a simple linen dress brought over from the main island, Ivar has a matching white linen shirt and trousers, and you're being married in 24 hours.

"How did this happen?" you ask while braiding Ivar's hair the following afternoon. "From relaxing holiday to wedding in one day."   
"I don't know." He chuckles. "Are you nervous?"   
"Not at all. You?"   
"Nope."   
Just an hour ago you were swimming in the ocean together, floating atop water so clear you can see the sandy bed far below, followed by a warm shower and just the right amount of makeup for the most casual of wedding ceremonies. Your hair is air-drying into natural waves, encouraged by the salty air, the front loosely braided away from your face. He kisses you slowly, his breath catching with the emotion he pours into you through his lips.   
"You're sure about this, yes? You know all there is to know and you're making a well-considered decision?"   
You smile and stroke your fingertips down the side of his face, his bright blue eyes wide and searching. "Yes, Scotland Yard. I am."   
Since getting back together you've had all of the raw and uncomfortable conversations about children and Ivar's sometimes unstable health. 'Falling' pregnant wasn't something that could happen for you -- even deliberately. There would at the very least be a procedure involved, and there was no guarantee your offspring wouldn't suffer the same genetic condition. At the time you reassured him that you were fine with whatever you decided together, whether that was to take the risk or remain childless. Now you repeated what you told him at the time:   
"All I need is you."

Half an hour before sunset Ivar is whisked away down the long boardwalk to the sand and a beautiful woman whose gentle voice and calming demeanour remind you of Malinda weaves flowers into your hair and a colourful lei around your neck. A canoe carries you over the gentle waves until they meet the shore where Ivar waits, to help you out into the warm ankle-deep water. The setting sun turns the sky and sea into an array of purples, pinks, reds, and oranges as your vows are made in front of the island's chief. Along with the standard vows you both added your own words.   
"(Y/N), from the first time I laid eyes on your odd socks I was mesmerised. You turned my life completely on its head and not only am I happier with you in my life, you've made me a better man, made me want to be a more kind and compassionate human being. I promise to spend every day showing you how much you mean to me, demonstrating my unconditional love for you, and rewarding your limitless calm and patience. I would not be who I am if it weren't for you, I love you more than words can express."   
"Ivar, my first impression of you wasn't your crutches, your hard-earned body, or even those beautiful blue eyes. It was the heart you proudly display on your sleeve. It was taking the chance of leaving me not one but two notes, the way you always tell me how you feel. I've never been more proud to have a man by my side, one who isn't afraid to question and challenge his emotions. I loved you before, I love the man you are now and the man you will be as we grow old together. You are my home, my comfort, my family. And I will always be there for you to lean on."   
The wedding band he slides onto your finger is white gold with a channel of diamonds around the centre, while Ivar's is plain white gold. Your first kiss as husband and wife is right as the sun dips into the shimmering ocean, the quiver of Ivar's lips betraying the deluge of emotion even before you pull back and see the tears glistening in his eyes.

That night your villa is lit only by candles and you undress each other slowly, making love in time with the waves lapping at the piers below. When you wake late the following morning your naked bodies are still tangled together, Ivar's heart beating steadily beneath your ear. As he begins to stir you turn your head enough to place light kisses on his chest, making a groan rumble beneath your lips.   
"Good morning, wife," he whispers.   
You look up at him with a giddy grin. "Good morning husband."   
"What are you up to, hm?" he asks as your fingertips step down the centre of his torso and over the trail of soft hair below his navel.   
"Exploring." There is an audible stutter in his breath as you reach his cock and it pulses against your hand. You make a trail of slow, wet kisses up the side of his neck, and then his fingers are scooping through your hair and lifting your mouth to his for a long heated kiss.

Abruptly he flips you to your back, making you squeak in surprise, and then his lips are moving down beyond your jaw and neck. Teasing and tasting, his tongue darting out to leave warm licks as he makes his way down... a gentle squeeze of teeth on a hardened nipple.... a playful nip below your belly button... large, strong hands kneading and smoothing your flesh, warming it until it yields to his want. Ivar lies flat on his stomach, your legs hooked over his shoulders, and rubs back and forth over your folds with his fingers. His blue eyes watch intently -- your face, your glistening lips, the rise of your chest, the hollow of your stomach when he finds the spot and circles it slowly. It feels like forever the slow torture of his fingers carries on, deep strokes inside alternated by flicks and circles on your clit, and all the while he watches and waits until your hips are bucking against him and your mouth falls open in a long sigh. He stops and withdraws his touch, grinning when you frown down at him and whine at the loss. Those strong arms wrap around your thighs and hold your hips firm, his tongue swiping lasciviously across his lips before he brings his mouth to your soaked pussy. His touch is light, at first, kissing you softly and using only his plump lips to spread your juices onto every layer, so that when his tongue slowly penetrates you a long moan is drawn from your throat. Ivar moans at your taste, the sweet cream coating his tongue as his mouth vibrates against your lips, and then moves up to your aching bud. He licks around it in slow circles, feeling it swell in his mouth, flattens his tongue and rubs harder back and forth.

And then he seals his mouth against you and sucks your bud up against his tongue, making you lose all thought. All that exists is his mouth and your cunt, and he holds you firm so that you're nothing but a passenger along for the ride. Ivar wastes no time building you almost to your peak before backing off so you fall down, catching you and urging you higher again and again until your cries sound foreign to your ears and your body feels like you're flying. Just before your climax he eases two fingers inside to feel the spasm of your walls, bringing his lips back to light pressure to prolong the waves of orgasm breaking over your shaking body. At the height of ecstasy your fingers stretch out, searching for purchase on the smooth sheets and instead finding Ivar's hand waiting to thread into yours. As your grip loosens he strokes soothingly up and down with his thumb on your wrist before releasing you and withdrawing his fingers, planting soft kisses on your quivering inner thighs.   
"I will never, ever tire of that, my love," he says as he makes his way back up to lean over you, kissing your lips until you taste yourself on his tongue.   
"Me either," you say wistfully. "We should have put that in our vows."   
His head falls forward as he laughs. "Snuskebasse, I hereby promise to make you come frequently and loudly. Multiple orgasms. Every day."   
You widen your eyes. "Every day, hm?"   
"Every second day, at least," he says against your lips.

Reaching between you, you guide his cock between your folds and he buries himself to the hilt with a long groan. The glide of his girth back and forth is heaven on your swollen and overstimulated flesh, his steady thrusts eliciting soft moans as you grip his muscled shoulders. You've never been quite so taken by the sound of a man approaching orgasm as you always have been by Ivar -- his deep moans, grunts through gritted teeth, and sharp hisses as he finds release are somehow sexy and emotional all at once. He collapses down on you, sweating and gasping for air, basking in afterglow for as long as he dares.

After ringing in your first New Year as husband and wife you return to the dreary cold of home -- but neither of you really mind. In reality it is no different to returning from the Christmas break every other year -- with new photographs to display and stories of your travels, some extra jewellery and a certificate to legally announce your marriage -- but it feels completely new, as though your worlds have shifted a no one else can feel it.

Nothing has changed, but everything has changed.

 


	11. Epilogue

“I can’t,” you cry, shaking your head. “I’m sorry, Ivar. I can’t do it any more." 

Despite every effort to make the room feel comfortable, with the more invasive equipment hidden in a wall of cabinets in stylish pink and grey tones, the muted lighting and soft music, the subtle scent of essential oils in a diffuser that almost cover the disinfectant smell completely, there are undeniable clues that give away its true nature. The emergency call buttons behind the bed, the ceiling tiles that must surely be identical in every hospital in the country, and the tiny crib that patiently awaits the arrival of its next resident.   
"You can, beautiful girl. One breath at a time.” A strong contraction sucks the air from your lungs, but Ivar’s firm voice steadies your thoughts until it passes. “Somewhere inside you there is a Drill Sergeant. She’s a fierce bitch, and I’m not keen on meeting her again, but she gets the job done.”   
The midwife on the other side of the room looks at you both like you just grew an extra limb, and you share a quiet chuckle.

*********************

You’d been married a couple of years when you first took Ivar’s worsening symptoms seriously and insisted he see the doctor, and it quickly became clear your concerns were justified. You were by his side when the specialist suggested surgery, and shocked at Ivar’s immediate dismissal of the option. As a child he spent long periods of time in hospital under the direction of surgeons who were determined to ‘fix’ his condition with lengthy and painful procedures — and few of them were successful. It was only months later when he was confined to a wheelchair outside the house and the pain in his back and legs was no longer manageable that he agreed. The recovery was drawn out and stalled when he refused to try standing or walking, adamant that he was content with being wheelchair bound as long as he wasn’t in pain like before. This wasn’t the Ivar you knew. You tried everything you could think of to encourage him, used every strategy on the spectrum from gentle praise to practically putting on a cheerleader outfit and waving pom poms, even stopped saying anything at all… but nothing changed and he continued to slip steadily toward surrender.

With the support of his physical therapist you turned to tough love, literally ordering him onto his feet. For a time he’d nicknamed you 'Sergeant Socks’ but you didn’t back down until he was walking again. Months later the chair was put back into the garage for emergencies and he thanked you every day for believing in him when he had so little faith in himself.

***********************

“I want the drugs. I’ve changed my mind.”   
Ivar looks at you with the horror of a man who has been told under no circumstances to let you have said drugs because you want a natural birth, and is now faced with a wife in agonising pain who has come to the realisation that 'natural’ birthing is quite a stupid idea when there are other options.   
“Babe, I…” his voice falters for a moment while he struggles to find the right words.   
You agreed you wanted to be active, you took the classes together and researched every option thoroughly before deciding you didn’t want to be stuck on the bed if you could avoid it. Now that you’re braced on the edge of the bed and rocking back and forth through the contractions it’s impossible to keep your mind on anything but the pain, and knowing you still have at least a few hours before the end is in sight — one midwife actually had the gall to suggest it could be another day — brings tears streaming down your cheeks.   
As the tightening passes you straighten and turn to Ivar, wiping your face before resting your head on his chest. “I’m not strong enough. I thought I could do it.”   
“You can. We still have so many other things to try.” He peers into the bag on the bed, containing everything you could conceivably need to get through a long first labour. Rummaging through, he mentally disregards the stress balls and anything else with potential to be thrown at him, finding instead the list of activities you wrote out a few weeks ago. “How about a shower?”

***********************

“You’re fucking crazy.” Ivar laughed as he watched the downpour soak through your cotton dress, the now heavy fabric conforming to your body like a transparent second skin. That year was the hottest summer on record and finally a particularly long heat wave was broken by spectacular thunderstorms and torrential rain. Lightning reflected on your wet body as you danced in the rain, laughing and feeling the relief of cool water on sweaty skin. As the thunder rumbled ominously in the distance you beckoned Ivar to join you, crooking your finger and running your other hand down your side in an attempt to coax him out of the shelter to the patio. He shook his head, eyes widening as you lifted the hem of your dress.   
“Socks…” he warned.   
“You never danced naked in the rain as a kid?”   
Again he shook his head. “I don’t dance.”   
“You haven’t lived!” you said dramatically, a well-timed crack of thunder punctuating your point nicely.  
Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the nagging fear that after five years of marriage you and Ivar had become too routine and predictable, maybe you were in fact crazy. Slowly, keeping your eyes on Ivar’s when they weren’t being belted with heavy raindrops, you peeled the dress from your body and tossed it in his direction. If Ivar was surprised or genuinely concerned, he didn’t show it. He watched with a broad smile, laughing as you spun around the small space in nothing but panties while the water ran in thick rivulets on your skin and dripped from your nipples. You tipped your head back and let it beat on your face, another flash of lightning and louder thunder eventually making you open your eyes to find Ivar had retrieved his camera and was snapping pictures of you from the safety of the doorway. For a few minutes you posed, hoping no one could see in from the surrounding houses but not really caring. He dissolved into laughter when you started singing 'I’m too sexy for my shirt…’, holding his finger on the shutter while admiring you in total adoration. All those years ago he’d wondered what kind of quirky personality was behind those odd socks, and now he knew. People rarely saw this side of you, it was kept locked away because you were taught to be well-mannered and sensible, but the joy it brought to Ivar made you let it out more often in his presence. Ivar opened the door to set the camera down on the hall table and you seized the opportunity, appearing only inches from him when he turned back.  
“Don’t you dare,” he said, raising a finger with a smirk. “I don’t have a crutch.”   
“You’re screwed, then. Come on.” You took his hand and tugged gently. “You know you can lean on me.”   
When he refused you changed strategy, pressing your skin against his front until the water seeped through and cooled him. Ivar laughed and tried to pry you off but you held tight until his clothes were soaked, then wrapped his arms around your neck and crashed your lips together, kissing you deep and hungrily while you stepped slowly back into the rain. By the time your mouths parted you were peeling the wet shirt from his head and shortly after his shorts joined the growing pile of wet clothing, leaving you both tangled together as the refreshing shower washed over your hair, your joined lips, weaving between your bodies where they pressed together. Ivar reached back and released the band from his hair, letting the cool water run through until it clung to his shoulders.   
“My crazy girl,” he said, resting his forehead on yours and closing his eyes.   
“I’d do far worse than dance in the rain to see that smile.”

*****************************

Oh, the magic of hot water. Ivar has one nozzle pointed at your lower back, easing the pain across your hips, while you make circles with another on your belly. You’ve been alternating between the shower and all sorts of strange but comfortable rocking positions on a thick floor mat, on and off for a couple of hours. The contractions are closer, now, but you can talk and think in between, get yourself centred for the next with Ivar’s calming words. As you shut off the water he drapes a huge towel over your shoulders and then sits on the edge of the bed.  
“Come here a minute,” he says, reaching his hands out to you. You rest your hands on his shoulders and let your head fall forward as your belly tightens again, leaning into him while he rubs your hips. “You’re doing so well, beautiful. You’re so strong.”   
“’m so tired,” you slur as it eases.   
Ivar takes your face in his hands, smoothing the wet hair back from your temples and kissing your forehead before resting against it with his own. “Do you still want the drugs?”   
You sigh and shake your head. “No, I think I can…” you trail off and hold up a finger, digging your fingers hard into his shoulders.   
“You can always change your mind. Shh… we’re almost at the end… almost there…” he coos as you whimper in pain.

You remain in that position a while before your body seems to shift gear, only to find out you’ve actually been leaning on his shoulders for almost an hour and he’s been timing every single one.   
“I think it’s almost time,” the midwife says after talking quietly to Ivar. “The bath is ready if you’d still like to use it.” You nod and she helps you into the warm water, pulling a chair up for Ivar on one side before leaving you alone again.   
“I love you so much, y/n,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Do you think it will be a boy or a girl?”   
All along you’ve had a feeling it is a girl, though you couldn’t put your finger on why. “I think… girl.” You grip his hand and the edge of the bath, gritting your teeth so hard your jaw creaks.   
“Maybe a little warrior girl like her mama.”

You’re barely getting through the contractions, now, and there isn’t time in between to catch your breath. Ivar counts out the seconds, backwards from sixty for each one although it feels like he’s slowing down each time.   
“No.” You pant and tears fall onto your cheeks. “No more. I can’t.”   
“This is the worst of it, remember? We read about this, where it gets really bad right before the end.”  
You rest your head on his leg for a moment before groaning in pain again. “Fuck. Please make it stop.”  
“You’re so close to meeting our baby. Focus on that, every bit of pain is just a bit closer.”   
“That’s not helping! You just get to sit there and it’s not fucking fair!” You look up, expecting to see hurt or frustration in his eyes.   
Instead you see him stand and move the chair back a little.   
“Ivar, I’m sorry. It’s just so… please, I’m sorry. What are you doing?”   
He tugs his shirt off by the collar and steps out of his jeans. “Doing something useful,” he says as he settles into the water behind your back.

**************************

In almost ten years of marriage the topic of children had come up regularly, most often from other people. Some assumed that it wasn’t possible and would ask if you’d considered adoption, others would deliberately shut down the subject for fear of upsetting you. Truthfully you’d both just decided you didn’t want to be parents yet — if ever — but if that changed you’d talk about it again. One night as you lay together, still catching your breath and shimmering with sweat, he rubbed his hand over your belly.  
“I sometimes imagine you all swollen with my child,” he said softly. It was something that had been on your mind recently, with a friend announcing she was pregnant with a baby girl a few weeks earlier.  
“I’ve thought about that, too.” You smiled and carded your fingers through his hair. “Is that something you want?”   
“I think… Yes.”   
“Me too.”

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I suggested making a baby,” Ivar said as he held your hand a few months later.   
You smiled. “It’s less fun, but we can do the fun stuff later and pretend.”   
The doctor cleared her throat and chuckled. “Ok, nice and still. Here we go.”   
There were no guarantees — it was said your chances were slightly higher than the turkey baster method and lower than IVF. You agreed to begin with the least invasive option first, though. Although Ivar had balked at the idea of a doctor, as he called it, 'sucking semen from a needle in my sack’, he did find the process quite humorous once he was numbed. Now you tried to ignore the same doctor between your raised legs, with your entire coochie on display, injecting said semen directly into your womb.   
“Done,” she said as she lowered your legs. “Now we wait. I’ll give you a call in three weeks if I don’t hear from you sooner.”

“The gods must have been smiling on us,” he said when you showed him the first of many positive tests. Then he kissed you and looked at you with teary eyes. “We’re having a baby, Socks.”

He was an attentive and caring expectant father, if a tiny bit anxious and overly-cautious. You were a little more relaxed and tried to be understanding, but when he wanted to avoid sex until the first trimester had passed your patience ran out.   
“Ivar, you can’t get anywhere near the baby. It’s tiny and well protected. I checked with the doctor, unless they specifically tell us otherwise we can have as much sex as we like.”   
“You’re sure?” he said, rolling toward you in bed and skimming his hand beneath the hem of your shirt. “Because I’ve been dying to make love to you.”   
You climbed on top and rolled your hips against his, making him moan into your kiss. “Please. I need you.”   
Ivar treated you like you were made of glass, making love to you until late in the morning. When you finally cried out your orgasms together you were both exhausted, lying in each other’s arms until the sun was high in the sky and you’d dozed through the rosy post-sex glow while the sweat and juices dried on your skin.   
“There’s a baby in there,” he said later, rubbing circles on your belly.   
“It’s hard to believe, hm?”

*****************

You can barely comprehend the midwife’s words when she says the baby is coming. Ivar has been supporting behind your back and encouraging you through the worst of the transition pain, and then as suddenly as it began the time between tightenings stretches back out and gave you some much-needed breathing room.   
There is no way you are getting out of the soothing warm water.   
After an hour of bearing down and pain you feel is surely tearing you in two, you deliver Ivar’s son right into his waiting hands. Once placed on your chest the tiny boy falls immediately calm and peaceful, only the occasional soft cries interrupting his rooting from your neck down to your breast. Ivar runs his fingertips gently down his little one’s spine and then nods, crying openly as he rests his forehead on yours.   
“He’s perfect. You did amazing. I love you so much.”   
You don’t have the energy for words, but you’re immediately more in love with your baby boy and husband than you ever thought possible.

Jakob is immediately the piece that makes your family complete. Within a week you forget how your home was without him, how your lives must have been filled with something else but now every second seems spent with him. Even when he naps you often find Ivar watching in wonder, smiling joyfully at every contented sound. Scans before you leave the hospital clear him of any neural tube defect like Ivar’s and the tears of relief flow once more. As Jakob settles in at home you begin to look forward to the adventures a little boy might bring, like a new world opening up to your shared life with Ivar. He talks of teaching Jakob the things he was considered too fragile for as a child, of helping him up when he falls rather than holding him back.

“I can’t wait to see the man you’ll be,” you overhear him say to a sleepy, cooing baby Jakob. “One who is kind and never hurtful. A better man than your father.”   
It breaks your heart, and later that night you’re sure to remind him how far he’s come.   
“A good man can be born that way, but a great man like you? That only comes from sheer will to change yourself. You are a wonderful man, Ivar. I cannot imagine a better role model for our son. And you are great because you made it so.”


End file.
